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WORKS.  17  vols.,  uniform,  i6mo,  with  frontispiece,  gilt 
top. 

WAKK-ROBIN. 

WINTER  SUNSHINE. 

LOCUSTS  AND  WILD  HONEY. 

FRESH  FIELDS. 

INDOOR  STUDIES. 

BIRDS  AND  POETS,  with  Other  Papers. 

PEPACTON,  and  Other  Sketches. 

SIGNS  AND  SEASONS. 

RlVERBY. 

WHITMAN  :  A  STUDY. 

THE  LIGHT  OF  DAY. 

LITERARY  VALUES. 

FAR  AND  NEAR. 

WAYS  OF  NATURE. 

LEAF  AND  TENDRIL. 

TIME  AND  CHANGE. 

THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS. 

THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS.    Riverside 

Edition. 

TIME  AND   CHANGE.     Riverside  Edition. 
LEAF   AND   TENDRIL.     Riverside  Edition. 
WAYS   OF   NATURE.     Riverside  Edition. 
FAR   AND    NEAR.     Riverside  Edition. 
LITERARY  VALUES.     Riverside  Edition. 
THE    LIGHT   OF   DAY.     Riverside  Edition. 
WHITMAN:   A  Study.     Riverside  Edition. 

A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS.  Selections  appropriate 
to  each  season  of  the  year,  from  the  writings  of  John 
Burroughs.  Illustrated  from  Photographs  by  CLIF- 
TON JOHNSON. 

IN  THE  CATSKfLLS.  Illustrated  from  Photographs 
by  CLIFTON  JOHNSON. 

CAMPING  AND  TRAMPING  WITH  ROOSEVELT. 
Illustrated  from  Photographs. 

BIRD   AND    BOUGH.     Poems. 

WINTER    SUNSHINE.     Cambridge  Classics  Series. 

WAKE-ROBIN.    Riverside  Aldine  Series. 

SQUIRRELS  AND  OTHER  FUR-BEARERS.  Illus- 
trated. 

BIRD   STORIES   FROM    BURROUGHS.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE 
YEARS 


BY 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
flifcergi&c  prejs?  Cambridge 
1913 


COPYRIGHT,    1913,   BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  ii 


PREFACE 

IN  publishing  another  volume  of  mixed  essays, 
most  of  them  written  in  the  over-time  I  have 
made  since  I  passed  the  Scriptural  limit  of  three- 
score and  ten  years,  I  am  cherishing  the  hope  that 
my  reader  will  not  wish  I  had  stopped  at  the 
boundary  set  by  the  Psalmist. 

There  is  no  other  joy  in  life  like  mental  and  bodily 
activity,  like  keeping  up  a  live  interest  in  the  world 
of  thought  and  things.  Old  age  is  practically  held 
at  bay  so  long  as  one  can  keep  the  currents  of  his  life 
moving.  The  vital  currents,  like  mountain  streams, 
tend  to  rejuvenate  themselves  as  they  flow. 

One  reaps  his  harvest,  and  it  looks  as  if  his  acres 
would  never  yield  another,  but  lo!  as  the  seasons 
return,  there  springs  a  fresh  crop  of  ideas  and  obser- 
vations. It  seems  as  if  one  never  could  get  to  the  end 
of  all  the  delightful  things  there  are  to  know,  and  to 
observe,  and  to  speculate  about  in  the  world.  Na- 
ture is  always  young,  and  there  is  no  greater  felicity 
than  to  share  in  her  youth.  I  still  find  each  day  too 
short  for  all  the  thoughts  I  want  to  think,  all  the 
walks  I  want  to  take,  all  the  books  I  want  to  read, 
and  all  the  friends  I  want  to  see.  But  I  will  confide 
to  my  reader  that  there  is  one  thing  I  am  quite  cer- 

281696 


PREFACE 

tain  I  have  got  to  the  end  of,  and  that  is  the  vexed 
question  of  the  animal  mind.  Whether  the  dog,  the 
cat,  and  the  cockroach  reason  or  not,  shall  trouble 
me  (and  them)  no  more.  While  I  write  these  lines 
in  my  outdoor  study,  a  chipmunk  whose  den  is  near 
by,  comes  in  and  eagerly  selects  the  hard,  dry 
kernels  of  pop-corn  from  the  soft  unripe  kernels  of 
sweet  corn  which  I  have  sprinkled  upon  the  floor  at 
my  feet,  stuffs  his  cheek  pockets  with  them  and  hur- 
ries away  to  his  den  as  if  he  knew  that  the  dry  corn 
would  keep  in  his  retreat,  and  that  the  green  would 
not.  After  he  has  collected  all  the  dry  kernels,  he 
falls  to  eating  the  green  ones.  I  also  sprinkle  choke- 
cherries  among  the  corn.  These  he  finally  proceeds 
to  strip  of  their  pulp  and  skins,  and  stuff  his  pockets 
with  their  pits,  and  rushes  off  to  his  den  —  thus 
putting  no  perishable  food  hi  his  winter  retreat. 
Does  the  pretty  little  rodent  reason  about  all  this? 
Ah!  my  reader,  ask  some  one  else!  As  for  me,  I  will 
content  myself  with  his  companionship  as  he  runs 
along  my  study  table,  pokes  his  nose  into  the  arch 
made  by  my  hand,  under  which  the  kernels  lie,  and 
even  climbs  to  the  crown  of  my  head.  He  sets  me 
to  thinking,  and  I,  if  I  do  not  set  him  to  thinking, 
at  least  aid  him  in  adding  to  his  winter  supplies. 
We  are  both  learning  something;  day  unto  day 
uttereth  knowledge,  and  even  a  chipmunk  shares 
a  little  of  the  wisdom  that  pervades  the  universe. 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS     ....      1 

II.  IN  "THE  CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS"     24 

HI.  IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE        ....    48 

IV.  THE  HIT-AND-M iss  METHOD  OF  NATURE   .    76 

V.  A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 93 

VI.  THE  ANIMAL  MIND       .      .      .      .      .      .113 

VH.  NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE       ....  138 

VEIL   THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR     .      .      .  155 
IX.  THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PuzzLE-Box      .      .  175 

X.  UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 201 

XI.  THE  Bow  IN  THE  CLOUDS 212 

XII.  THE  ROUND  WORLD 217 

Xm.  A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 223 

XIV.  IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 236 

I.  INTENSIVE  OBSERVATION        ....   236 

n.  FROM  A  WALKER'S  WALLET       .      .      .  246 

IH.  MEN  AND  ANIMALS 256 

vii 


CONTENTS 

IV.  BIRD-NESTING  TIME 267 

V.  WEASEL  AND  RABBIT 274 

VI.   WILD  LIFE  IN  WINTER 281 

VII.  A  FEATHERED  BANDIT 288 

INDEX  .      .      .293 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 


I 

THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 


THE  longer  I  live  the  more  my  mind  dwells  upon 
the  beauty  and  the  wonder  of  the  world.  I 
hardly  know  which  feeling  leads,  wonderment  or 
admiration.  After  a  man  has  passed  the  psalmist's 
dead  line  of  seventy  years,  as  Dr.  Holmes  called  it, 
if  he  is  of  a  certain  temperament,  he  becomes  more 
and  more  detached  from  the  noise  and  turmoil  of 
the  times  in  which  he  lives.  The  passing  hubbub  in 
the  street  attracts  him  less  and  less;  more  and  more 
he  turns  to  the  permanent,  the  fundamental,  the 
everlasting.  More  and  more  is  he  impressed  with 
life  and  nature  in  themselves,  and  the  beauty  and 
the  grandeur  of  the  voyage  we  are  making  on  this 
planet.  The  burning  questions  and  issues  of  the 
hour  are  for  the  new  generations,  in  whom  life  also 
burns  intensely. 

My  life  has  always  been  more  or  less  detached 
from  the  life  about  me.  I  have  not  been  a  hermit, 
but  my  temperament  and  love  of  solitude,  and  a 
certain  constitutional  timidity  and  shrinking  from 
all  kinds  of  strife,  have  kept  me  in  the  by-paths 
rather  than  on  the  great  highways  of  life.  My  talent, 

1 


SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

such  as  it  is,  is  distinctly  a  by-path  talent,  or  at 
most,  a  talent  for  green  lanes  and  sequestered  road- 
sides; but  that  which  has  most  interested  me  in  life, 
nature,  can  be  seen  from  lanes  and  by-paths  better 
even  than  from  the  turnpike,  where  the  dust  and 
noise  and  the  fast  driving  obscure  the  view  or  dis- 
tract the  attention.  I  have  loved  the  feel  of  the  grass 
under  my  feet,  and  the  sound  of  the  running  streams 
by  my  side.  The  hum  of  the  wind  in  the  tree- tops  has 
always  been  good  music  to  me,  and  the  face  of  the 
fields  has  often  comforted  me  more  than  the  faces 
of  men. 

I  am  in  love  with  this  world;  by  my  constitution 
I  have  nestled  lovingly  in  it.  It  has  been  home.  It 
has  been  my  point  of  outlook  into  the  universe. 
I  have  not  bruised  myself  against  it,  nor  tried  to 
use  it  ignobly.  I  have  tilled  its  soil,  I  have  gathered 
its  harvests,  I  have  waited  upon  its  seasons,  and 
always  have  I  reaped  what  I  have  sown.  While  I 
delved  I  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  sky  overhead. 
While  I  gathered  its  bread  and  meat  for  my  body, 
I  did  not  neglect  to  gather  its  bread  and  meat  for 
my  soul.  I  have  climbed  its  mountains,  roamed  its 
forests,  sailed  its  waters,  crossed  its  deserts,  felt 
the  sting  of  its  frosts,  the  oppression  of  its  heats, 
the  drench  of  its  rains,  the  fury  of  its  winds,  and 
always  have  beauty  and  joy  waited  upon  my  goings 
and  comings. 

I  have  kept  apart  from  the  strife  and  fever  of  the 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

world,  and  the  maelstrom  of  business  and  political 
life,  and  have  sought  the  paths  by  the  still  waters, 
and  in  the  quiet  fields,  and  life  has  been  sweet  and 
wholesome  to  me.  In  my  tranquil  seclusion  I  am 
often  on  the  point  of  upbraiding  myself  because  I 
keep  so  aloof  from  the  struggles  and  contentions  and 
acrimonious  debates  of  the  political,  the  social,  and 
the  industrial  world  about  me.  I  do  not  join  any  of 
the  noisy  processions,  I  do  not  howl  with  the  reform- 
ers, or  cry  Fire!  with  the  alarmists.  I  say  to  myself, 
What  is  all  this  noisy  civilization  and  all  this  rattling 
machinery  of  government  for,  but  that  men  may  all 
have  just  the  sane  and  contented  life  that  I  am  liv- 
ing, and  on  the  same  terms  that  I  do.  They  can  find 
it  in  the  next  field,  beyond  the  next  hill,  in  the  town 
or  in  the  country  —  a  land  of  peace  and  plenty,  if 
one  has  peace  in  his  heart  and  the  spirit  of  fair  play 
in  his  blood. 

Business,  politics,  government,  are  but  the 
scaffoldings  of  our  house  of  life;  they  are  there  that 
I  may  have  a  good  roof  over  my  head,  and  a  warm 
and  safe  outlook  into  the  beauty  and  glory  of  the 
universe,  and  let  them  not  absorb  more  time  and 
energy  than  the  home  itself.  They  have  absorbed 
very  little  of  mine,  and  I  fancy  that  my  house  of 
life  would  have  had  just  as  staunch  walls,  and  just 
as  many  windows  and  doors,  had  they  not  absorbed 
so  much  of  other  men's.  Let  those  who  love  turmoil 
arm  for  turmoil:  their  very  arming  will  bring  it; 
3 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

and  let  those  who  love  peace  disarm  for  peace:  the 
disarming  will  hasten  it. 

I  know  that  all  this  clamor  and  competition,  all 
this  heat  and  friction  and  turmoil  of  the  world,  are 
only  the  result  of  the  fury  with  which  we  play  the 
game  of  our  civilization.  It  is  like  our  college  foot- 
ball, which  is  brutal  and  killing,  and  more  like  war 
than  like  sport.  Why  should  I  be  more  than  an 
amused  or  a  pained  spectator? 

I  was  never  a  fighter;  I  fear  that  at  times  I  may 
have  been  a  shirker,  but  I  have  shirked  one  thing 
or  one  duty  that  I  might  the  more  heartily  give 
myself  to  another.  He  also  serves  who  sometimes 
runs  away. 

From  the  summit  of  the  years  I  look  back  over 
my  life,  and  see  what  I  have  escaped  and  what  I 
have  missed,  as  a  traveler  might  look  back  over  his 
course  from  a  mountain-top,  and  see  where  he  had 
escaped  a  jungle  or  a  wilderness  or  a  desert,  and 
where  he  had  missed  a  fair  field  or  a  fountain,  or 
pleasant  habitations.  I  have  escaped  the  soul- 
killing  and  body-wrecking  occupations  that  are  the 
fate  of  so  many  men  in  my  time.  I  have  escaped  the 
greed  of  wealth,  the  "mania  of  owning  things,"  as 
Whitman  called  it.  I  have  escaped  the  disappoint- 
ment of  political  ambition,  of  business  ambition, 
of  social  ambition;  I  have  never  lost  myself  in  the 
procession  of  parties,  or  trained  with  any  sect  or 
clique.  I  have  been  fortunate  in  being  allowed  to  go 
4 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

my  own  way  in  the  world.  I  was  fortunate  in  my 
youth  in  having  escaped  the  daily  paper,  and  espe- 
cially the  Sunday  paper  and  the  comic  supplement, 
and  the  flood  of  cheap  fiction  that  now  submerges 
the  reading  public. 

It  is  a  question  whether  in  escaping  a  college 
education  I  made  a  hit  or  a  miss.  I  am  inclined  to 
the  opinion  that  a  little  systematic  training,  espe- 
cially in  science,  would  have  been  a  gain,  though 
the  systematic  grind  in  literature  which  the  college 
puts  its  students  through  I  am  glad  to  have  escaped. 
I  thank  Heaven  that  in  literature  I  have  never  had 
to  dissect  Shakespeare  or  Milton,  or  any  other  great 
poet,  in  the  classroom,  and  that  I  have  never  had 
to  dissect  any  animal  in  the  laboratory.  I  have  had 
the  poets  in  their  beautiful  and  stimulating  unity 
and  wholeness,  and  I  have  had  the  animals  in  the 
fields  and  woods  in  the  joy  of  their  natural  activities. 
In  my  literary  career  I  have  escaped  trying  to  write 
for  the  public  or  for  editors;  I  have  written  for  my- 
self. I  have  not  asked,  "What  does  the  public 
want?"  I  have  only  asked, 


__sav_?  What  is  there  in  my  heart  craving  for  expres- 
sion? What  have  I  lived  or  felt  or  thought  that  is 
my  own,  and  has  its  root  in  my  inmost  being?" 

I  have  few  of  the  aptitudes  of  the  scholar,  and 

fewer  yet  of  the  methodical  habits  and  industry  of 

the  man  of  business.   I  live  in  books  a  certain  part 

of  each  day,  but  less  as  a  student  of  books  than  as  a 

5 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

student  of  life.  I  go  to  books  and  to  nature  as  a  bee 
goes  to  the  flower,  for  a  nectar  that  I  can  make  into 
my  own  honey.  My  memory  for  the  facts  and  the 
arguments  of  books  is  poor,  but  my  absorptive 
power  is  great.  What  I  meet  in  life,  in  my  walks, 
or  in  my  travels,  which  is  akin  to  me,  or  in  the  line 
of  my  interest  and  sympathies,  that  sticks  to  me 
like  a  burr,  or,  better  than  that,  like  the  food  I  eat. 
So  with  books :  what  I  get  from  them  I  do  not  carry 
in  my  memory,  but  it  is  absorbed  as  the  air  I 
breathe  or  the  water  I  drink.  It  is  rarely  ready  on 
my  tongue  or  my  pen,  but  makes  itself  felt  in  a 
much  more  subtle  and  indirect  way. 

There  is  no  one,  I  suppose,  who  does  not  miss 
some  good  fortune  in  his  life.  We  all  miss  congenial 
people,  people  who  are  going  our  way,  and  whose 
companionship  would  make  life  sweeter  for  us. 
Often  we  are  a  day  too  early,  or  a  day  too  late,  at 
the  point  where  our  paths  cross.  How  many  such 
congenial  souls  we  miss  we  know  not,  but  for  my 
part,  considering  the  number  I  have  met,  I  think  it 
may  be  many. 

I  have  missed  certain  domestic  good  fortunes, 
such  as  a  family  of  many  children  (I  have  only  one), 
which  might  have  made  the  struggle  of  life  harder, 
but  which  would  surely  have  brought  its  compensa- 
tions. Those  lives  are,  indeed,  narrow  and  confined 
which  are  not  blessed  with  several  children.  Every 
branch  the  tree  puts  out  lays  it  open  more  to  the 
6 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

storms  and  tempests  of  life;  it  lays  it  open  also  to  the 
light  and  the  sunshine,} and  to  the  singing  and  the 
mating  birds.  A  childless  life  is  a  tree  without 
branches,  a  house  without  windows. 

I  missed  being  a  soldier  in  the  armies  of  the  Union 
during  the  Civil  War,  which  was  probably  the  great- 
est miss  of  my  life.  I  think  I  had  in  me  many  of  the 
qualities  that  go  to  the  making  of  a  good  soldier  — 
love  of  adventure,  keenness  of  eye  and  ear,  love  of 
camp-life,  ability  to  shift  for  myself,  skill  with  the 
gun,  and  a  sound  constitution.  But  the  rigidity  of 
the  military  system,  the  iron  rules,  the  mechanical 
unity  and  precision,  the  loss  of  the  one  in  the  many 
—  all  would  have  galled  me  terribly,  though  better 
men  than  I  willingly,  joyously,  made  themselves  a 
part  of  the  great  military  machine.  I  should  have 
made  a  good  scout  and  skirmisher,  but  a  poor  fighter 
in  the  ranks.  I  am  a  poor  fighter,  anyhow. 

My  grandfather  was  a  soldier  of  the  Revolution, 
and  he  seems  to  have  used  up  about  all  the  fighting 
blood  there  was  in  the  family,  for  little  of  it  has 
shown  itself  since.  When  one  of  his  sons  was 
drafted  in  the  War  of  1812,  he  went  in  his  stead,  but 
did  not  get  face  to  face  with  the  enemy. 

I  got  near  enough  to  the  firing  line  during  our 
Civil  War  —  when  Early  made  his  demonstration 
against  the  Capital  in  1864,  and  I  was  a  clerk  in  the 
Treasury  Department  —  to  know  that  I  much 
prefer  the  singing  -of  the  birds  to  the  singing  of 
7 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

hostile  bullets.  Maybe  it  was  a  nudge  from  the  Old 
Continental  within  me  that  prompted  me  to  make 
my  way  out  Seventh  Street,  flanking  and  eluding 
the  guards  and  sentinels  of  the  Sixth  Corps  just  up 
from  Petersburg,  taking  a  roundabout  course 
through  fields  and  woods,  till  just  before  dark  I 
found  myself  amid  the  rifle-pits  in  front  of  one  of 
the  forts,  fraternizing  with  the  war-worn  veterans 
who  had  been  hurried  up  from  Grant's  army. 

I  had  really  made  myself  believe  that  if  there  was 
to  be  a  battle  I  would  have  a  hand  in  it  and  see  what 
it  was  like.  I  was  unarmed,  but  the  soldiers  assured 
me  that  they  could  quickly  put  a  gun  in  my  hand 
when  the  enemy  appeared.  There  was  some  firing 
in  front  on  a  hill  a  mile  away,  and  now  and  then  I 
heard  the  ping  of  a  rifle  bullet  overhead,  and  a 
few  times  the  thud  it  makes  when  it  strikes  the 
ground.  They  were  ugly  sounds  to  me,  and  to  the 
amusement  of  Grant's  veterans  who  lay  about  on 
the  ground,  as  if  they  were  on  a  picnic,  I  presently 
took  to  the  shelter  of  the  rifle-pits  and  remained 
there.  Later,  when  I  saw  a  company  of  soldiers 
being  hurried  off  into  the  darkness  toward  the  line 
of  rifle-flashes  along  the  horizon  in  front,  I  had  a 
sudden  and  vivid  conviction  that  the  stuff  of  a  good 
soldier  was  not  in  me,  —  not  at  that  moment,  at 
any  rate. 

If  I  had  been  ordered  to  join  those  soldiers  and 
face  that  unseen  and  unknown  •  danger  out  there  in 
8 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

the  night,  I  am  sure  my  legs  would  have  refused  to 
move,  and  would  have  collapsed  beneath  me.  What 
a  coward  I  was  at  that  instant!  The  Old  Conti- 
nental would  have  disowned  me.  But  darkness 
makes  cowards  of  us  all.  I  suppose  my  imagination 
ran  away  with  me  as  it  so  often  had  done  in  my 
boyhood  in  regard  to  "spooks"  and  hobgoblins. 

As  the  night  wore  on  and  no  attack  on  our  line 
seemed  imminent,  I  wandered  toward  the  rear  in 
search  of  new  adventure.  Passing  a  long,  low  build- 
ing that  was  being  used  as  a  hospital,  where  the 
wounded  were  being  cared  for,  I  went  in  and  offered 
my  services  to  the  surgeons.  The  operating- tables 
were  full  and  a  long  line  of  the  wounded  sat  crouched 
against  the  wall  waiting  their  turns.  Some  were 
groaning  and  some  were  joking. 

The  sight  of  human  blood  had  always  made  me 
faint,  but  now  I  seemed  unusually  stout  of  heart 
and  proceeded  to  hold  instruments  and  pass  vessels 
with  a  coolness  that  quite  surprised  me.  By  force  of 
will  I  must  have  steeled  myself  against  the  gory 
spectacle,  for  after  about  half  an  hour  my  composure 
broke.  I  grew  suddenly  faint  and  came  near  falling 
to  the  floor.  The  surgeon  whom  I  was  assisting, 
seeing  at  a  glance  what  had  happened  to  me,  said, 
"Get  out  of  here,  get  out  of  here!"  and  almost 
shoved  me  into  the  open  air. 

The  air  presently  restored  me,  but  I  had  had 
enough  of  war,  and  went  and  crept  in  among  some 

9 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

bales  of  hay  near  by  and  tried  to  sleep  away  the 
remainder  of  the  night.  But  sleep  did  not  come.  All 
night  I  heard  the  clattering  of  hoofs  and  sabres  as 
regiments  of  arriving  cavalry  filed  slowly  by  me. 
In  the  morning  I  made  my  way  back  to  the  city, 
satisfied  that  military  glory  was  not  in  the  line  of 
my  ambition. 

War  is  a  terrible  business,  but  I  never  see  a 
veteran  of  our  Civil  War  that  I  do  not  envy  him 
that  experience  —  an  experience  which  maybe  I 
should  have  had,  had  not  grandfather  so  nearly 
emptied  the  family  powder-horn  in  his  soldiering 
with  Washington. 

ii 

From  youth  to  age  I  have  lived  with  nature  more 
than  with  men.  In  youth  I  saw  nature  as  a  stand- 
ing invitation  to  come  forth  and  give  play  to  myself; 
the  streams  were  for  fishing  and  swimming,  the 
woods  were  for  hunting  and  exploring,  and  for  all 
kinds  of  sylvan  adventure;  the  fields  were  for  berries 
and  birds'  nests,  and  color,  and  the  delight  of  the 
world  of  grasses;  the  mountains  were  for  climbing 
and  the  prospects  and  the  triumphs  of  their  summits. 

The  world  was  good;  it  tasted  good,  it  delighted 
all  my  senses.  The  seasons  came  and  went,  each 
with  its  own  charms  and  enticements.  I  was  ready 
for  each  and  contented  with  each.  The  spring  was 
for  the  delights  of  sugar-making,  and  the  returning 
10 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

birds  —  the  naked  maple  woods  flooded  with  the 
warm,  creative  sunshine,  the  brown  fields  slipping 
off  their  covering  of  snow,  the  loosened  rills,  the  first 
robin,  the  first  phcebe,  the  first  song  sparrow  —  how 
all  these  things  thrilled  one!  The  summer  was  for 
bare  feet,  light  clothes,  freedom  from  school,  straw- 
berries, trout,  haymaking,  and  the  Fourth  of  July. 
Autumn  was  for  apples,  nuts,  wild  pigeons,  gray 
squirrels,  and  the  great  dreamy  tranquil  days; 
winter  for  the  fireside,  school,  games,  coasting,  and 
the  tonic  of  frost  and  snow.  How  the  stars  twinkled 
in  winter!  how  the  ice  sang  and  whooped  on  the 
ponds!  how  the  snow  sculpturing  decked  all  the 
farm  fences!  how  the  sheeted  winds  stalked  across 
the  hills! 

Oh,  the  eagerness  and  freshness  of  youth!  How 
the  boy  enjoys  his  food,  his  sleep,  his  sports,  his 
companions,  his  truant  days!  His  life  is  an  adven- 
ture, he  is  widening  his  outlook,  he  is  extending  his 
dominion,  he  is  conquering  his  kingdom.  How  cheap 
are  his  pleasures,  how  ready  his  enthusiasms!  In 
boyhood  I  have  had  more  delight  on  a  haymow  with 
two  companions  and  a  big  dog  —  delight  that  came 
nearer  intoxication  —  than  I  have  ever  had  in  all 
the  subsequent  holidays  of  my  life.  When  youth 
goes,  much  goes  with  it.  When  manhood  comes, 
much  comes  with  it.  We  exchange  a  world  of  de- 
lightful sensations  and  impressions  for  a  world  of 
duties  and  studies  and  meditations.  The  youth 
11 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

enjoys  what  the  man  tries  to  understand.  Lucky  is 
he  who  can  get  his  grapes  to  market  and  keep  the 
bloom  upon  them,  who  can  carry  some  of  the  fresh- 
ness and  eagerness  and  simplicity  of  youth  into  his 
later  years,  who  can  have  a  boy's  heart  below  a 
man's  head. 

The  birds  have  always  meant  much  to  me;  as  a 
farmboy  they  were  like  a  golden  thread  that  knit 
the  seasons  together.  In  early  manhood  I  turned  to 
them  with  the  fondness  of  youth,  reinforced  with  an 
impetus  obtained  from  literature.  Books,  especially 
the  poets,  may  do  this  for  a  man;  they  may  con- 
secrate a  subject,  give  it  the  atmosphere  of  the  ideal, 
and  lift  it  up  in  the  field  of  universal  interest.  They 
seem  to  have  done  something  like  that  for  me  in 
relation  to  birds.  I  did  not  go  to  books  for  my 
knowledge  of  the  birds,  except  for  some  technical 
knowledge,  but  I  think  literature  helped  to  endow 
them  with  a  human  interest  to  me,  and  relate  them 
to  the  deeper  and  purer  currents  of  my  life.  What 
joy  they  have  brought  me!  How  they  have  given 
me  wings  to  escape  the  tedious  and  the  deadening ! 
I  have  not  studied  them  so  much  as  I  have  loved 
them;  at  least,  my  studies  have  been  inspired  by 
love. 

How  much  more  easily  and  surely  knowledge 
comes  through  sympathy  than  through  the  knowing 
faculties!  It  is  as  if  I  had  imbibed  my  knowledge 
of  the  birds  through  the  pores  of  my  skin,  through 


THE   SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

the  air  I  have  breathed,  through  the  soles  of  my 
feet,  through  the  twinkle  of  the  leaves,  and  the  glint 
of  the  waters.  I  have  gone  a-fishing,  and  read  their 
secrets  out  of  the  corners  of  my  eyes.  I  have  lounged 
under  a  tree,  and  the  book  of  their  lives  has  been 
opened  to  me.  I  have  hoed  in  my  garden,  and  read 
the  histories  they  write  in  the  air.  Studied  the 
birds?  No,  I  have  played  with  them,  camped  with 
them,  gone  berrying  with  them,  summered  and 
wintered  with  them,  and  my  knowledge  of  them 
has  filtered  into  my  mind  almost  unconsciously. 

The  bird  as  a  piece  of  living  nature  is  what  inter- 
ests me,  having  vital  relations  to  all  out-of-doors, 
and  capable  of  linking  my  mind  to  itself  and  its 
surroundings  with  threads  of  delightful  associations. 
The  live  bird  is  a  fellow  passenger;  we  are  making 
the  voyage  together,  and  there  is  a  sympathy 
between  us  that  quickly  leads  to  knowledge.  If  I 
looked  upon  it  as  something  to  be  measured  and 
weighed  and  tabulated,  or  as  a  subject  for  labora- 
tory experimentation,  my  ornithology  would  turn 
to  ashes  in  my  hands. 

The  whole  of  nature,  directly  or  indirectly,  goes 
with  him  who  gives  his  mind  to  objects  in  the  open 
air.  The  observer  of  bird-life  in  the  open  has  heaven 
and  earth  thrown  in.  WeJ^Jjie.e_d^not  hajrp.joa  this 
string.  All  lovers  of  life  in  the  open  know  what  I 
would  say.  The  book  of  living  nature  is  unlike 
other  books  in  this  respect :  one  can  read  it  over  and 
13 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

over,  and  always  find  new  passages  and  new  mean- 
ings. It  is  a  book  that  goes  to  press  new  every  night, 
and  comes  forth  fresh  every  morning,  and  yet  it  is 
not  like  the  newspaper,  except  that  it  is  up-to-date. 
Its  news  is  always  vital,  you  see  it  in  the  making, 
and  you  are  not  blinded  or  deafened  with  the  dust 
and  noise  of  the  vulgar  newspaper  world. 

in 

I  began  by  saying  how  much  the  beauty  and 
wonder  of  the  world  occupies  me  these  later  years. 
How  these  things  come  home  to  me  as  life  draws 
near  the  end !  I  am  like  a  man  who  makes  a  voyage 
and  falls  so  much  in  love  with  the  ship  and  the  sea 
that  he  thinks  of  little  else  and  is  not  curious  about 
the  new  lands  before  him.  I  suppose  if  my  mind 
had  dwelt  much  upon  the  other  world  toward 
which  we  are  headed,  and  which  is  the  main  concern 
with  so  many  passengers,  I  should  have  found  less 
to  absorb  and  instruct  me  in  this.  In  fact,  the  hypo- 
thetical other  world  has  scarcely  occupied  me  at  all, 
and  when  it  has,  I  have  thought  of  it  as  a  projection 
from  this,  a  kind  of  Brocken  shadow  cast  by  our  love 
of  life  upon  futurity.  My  whole  being  is  so  well,  so 
exquisitely,  attuned  to  this  world,  that  I  have 
instinctively  felt  that  it  was  for  this  world  that  I 
was  made. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  see  how  I  could  be 
adjusted  to.  two  worlds  unless  they  were  much 
14 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

alike.  A  better  world  I  have  never  wanted.  I  could 
not  begin  to  exhaust  the  knowledge  and  the  delights 
of  this  one.  I  have  found  in  it  deep  beneath  deep, 
worlds  within  a  world  —  an  endless  series  of  beauti- 
ful and  wonderful  forms  forever  flowing  out  of  itself. 
From  the  highest  heavens  of  the  telescope  to  the 
minutest  organisms  of  the  miscroscope,  all  is  beau- 
tiful and  wonderful,  and  passeth  understanding. 

Oh,  how  much  the  world  holds  that  it  would  be  a 
joy  to  know!  How  wonderful  my  own  origin,  run- 
ning back  through  the  geologic  ages  to  the  first 
pulse  of  life  in  the  primordial  seas,  and  embracing 
all  between  that  eternity  and  this  moment !  I  love 
to  dwell  upon  it,  and  to  try  to  picture  to  myself  the 
long  road  I  have  traveled,  the  forms  of  lowly  life  in 
which  I  have  tarried,  the  vicissitudes  I  have  lived 
through,  the  contingencies  upon  which  my  well- 
being  has  hung. 

How  wonderful  that  all  these  countless  ages  are 
beneath  my  feet,  in  the  soil  I  tread  upon  and  out  of 
which  I  sprang! 

The  thought  that  I  or  my  race  had  been  arbitrarily 
placed  here,  and  that  I  was  not  the  inevitable  out- 
come of  the  visible  and  invisible  system  of  things, 
would  not  move  me.  I  like  to  think  I  am  not  an 
interloper,  or  an  accident  in  the  universe,  and  that 
the  whole  of  the  unthinkable  past  has  contributed 
to  you  and  me.  I  will  not  say,  is  summed  up  in  you 
and  me,  except  in  the  sense  that  the  highest  results 
15 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  evolution  culminate  in  us.  There  have  been  other 
lines  of  evolution  than  ours,  and  it  would  take  all 
the  forms  of  life  on  the  globe  to  sum  up  the  past. 

How  woncferful  that  the  globe  itself  should  have 
been  born  out  of  the  nebular  mist  —  the  cosmic 
world-stuff  in  the  womb  of  the  great  sidereal 
mother;  that  it  should  have  had  its  fiery  and  turbu- 
lent youth;  that  it  should  have  sobered  and  ripened 
with  age;  that  its  mantle  of  fertile  soil  should  have 
been  wrought  out  of  the  crude  igneous  and  stratified 
rocks;  that  it  falls  forever  around  the  sun,  and  never 
falls  into  it;  that  it  is  so  huge  that  we  cannot  span 
it,  even  in  imagination,  but  can  picture  it  to  our- 
selves only  by  piecemeal,  as  with  a  globe  of  our  own 
making;  and  yet  that  it  is  only  as  a  globule  of  blood 
in  the  veins  of  the  Infinite;  that  it  is  moving  with 
such  incredible  speed,  and  yet  to  our  senses  seems 
forever  at  rest;  that  the  heavens  are  always  above 
us  wherever  we  are  upon  its  surface,  and  never 
under  us,  as  the  image  of  a  globe  might  lead  us  to 
infer  would  be  the  case  at  times  —  all  this,  I  say, 
and  more,  fills  me  with  perpetual  wonder. 

More  and  more  I  think  of  the  globe  as  a  whole, 
though  I  can  only  do  so  by  figuring  it  to  myself  as 
I  see  it  upon  the  map,  or  as  a  larger  moon.  My 
mind's  eye  cannot  follow  the  sweep  of  its  curve  and 
take  in  more  than  a  small  arc  at  a  time.  More  and 
more  I  think  of  it  as  a  huge  organism  pulsing  with 
life,  real  and  potential. 

16 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

When  I  come  from  the  vast  to  the  minute,  I  find 
equal  cause  for  wonder  and  admiration.  If  I  look  at 
the  body  of  a  fly  with  my  pocket-glass,  or  at  the 
speck  of  an  insect  that  crawls  upon  the  page  of  my 
book  as  I  read,  I  marvel  at  its  exquisite  structure 
and  delicate  adjustment  of  parts,  the  elaboration, 
the  complexity,  the  ingenuity,  the  strange  mechan- 
ism of  it  all.  When  I  crush  it,  I  feel  what  a  consum- 
mation of  creative  workmanship,  what  a  delicate 
and  exquisite  product  of  the  long  ages  of  evolution, 
I  have  brought  to  naught.  When  I  see  the  marvel- 
ous intelligence  of  ants  and  bees  with  their  com- 
munities and  cooperations  and  complex  economies, 
I  cannot  help  but  wonder  what  might  have  been  the 
result  had  evolution  continued  on  the  same  line, 
and  mounted  step  by  step,  as  it  has  in  the  verte- 
brates. Would  some  being  with  more  intellect  than 
man  has,  have  been  the  result?  Maybe  it  was  so  on 
Mars,  or  on  some  other  world  in  the  depths  of  space. 

It  is  hard  for  us  to  conceive  of  mental  gifts  differ- 
ing in  kind  from  our  own,  but  it  is  certain  that  the 
wisdom  that  the  insect  world  possesses  is  not  like 
our  own,  and  comes  to  it  in  a  way  we  know  not  of. 
The  ants  and  bees  do  things  that  seem  to  imply 
what  we  call  second  sight,  or  a  gift  akin  to  clairvoy- 
ance. Take  the  case  of  one  of  the  solitary  wasps  of 
which  Sir  John  Lubbock  tells  us.  When  this  wasp 
lays  an  egg,  she  acts  as  if  she  knew  whether  the  egg 
would  produce  a  male  or  a  female;  she  puts  five 
17 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

insects  by  the  male  egg,  and  ten  by  the  female,  be- 
cause the  female  needs  twice  as  much  food  as  the 
male.  There  are  many  cases  like  that,  of  seeing 
behind  the  veil  of  things  in  the  insect  world,  and 
one  can  but  marvel  at  it.  It  sometimes  seems  as  if 
human  beings  possessed  this  gift  in  a  tentative,  ru- 
dimentary kind  of  way. 

How  can  any  one  help  but  marvel  when  he  con- 
siders the  structure  of  his  own  body?  —  several 
millions  or  billions  of  minute  cells,  working  together 
like  little  people  to  build  it  up  and  maintain  it, 
dividing  themselves  into  communities  or  fraternities 
each  with  its  own  work  to  do,  and,  so  far  as  we  can 
see,  with  none  having  the  direction  of  the  whole 
work  —  no  head  or  superintendent  or  architect  to 
determine  what  the  finished  structure  shall  be.  One 
community  of  cells  builds  muscle,  one  nerves, 
another  bones,  another  hair,  skin,  and  nails,  others 
the  viscera,  the  brain,  and  so  on,  till  the  full  stature 
of  man  is  reached.  No  single  cell  or  group  of  cells 
knows  the  plan  or  the  end  to  which  they  are  all 
working.  What  puts  the  result  of  all  these  myriad 
workmen  together  and  makes  the  man?  They  are 
many,  he  is  one.  The  microscope  reveals  them ;  it 
cannot  reveal  him.  He  rises  from  the  world  of 
minute  plastic  interacting  forms  as  Venus  rose  from 
the  sea,  and  the  sea  knows  not  the  secret. 

The  great  king  said,  "I  am  the  state";  but  think 
of  the  multiplex  lives  of  all  of  his  subjects  that  made 
18 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

up  and  sustained  the  state,  and  that  went  on  from 
day  to  day  and  from  year  to  year  entirely  beyond 
his  thought  or  ken!  A  man  may  say,  "I  am  the 
body";  but  the  body  is  an  aggregate  of  vital  and 
chemical  and  mechanical  forces  that  go  their  way 
without  his  leave  or  conscious  knowledge.  He  can 
arrest  them  or  destroy  them,  as  the  king  can  his 
subjects,  but  he  cannot  restore  them  or  renew  them. 
The  forces  that  brought  you  and  me  here,  and  sus- 
tain us,  how  complex,  how  far-reaching,  how  imper- 
sonal and  impartial,  and  how  little  subjected  to  our 
will! 

When  hostile  germs  from  without  invade  a  man's 
body,  he  is  ill,  he  has  a  chill,  a  fever,  an  inflamma- 
tion, but  little  he  knows  of  the  warfare  —  the  strug- 
gles, the  defeats,  the  deaths  —  that  are  going  on  in 
his  tissues.  Some  of  the  lower  forms  have  the  power 
of  regeneration,  or  of  re-growing  a  lost  part,  —  a 
tail,  a  section,  a  limb,  —  but  man's  body  lost  this 
power  when  it  took  on  its  highly  organized  nervous 
system  with  its  huge  complex  brain. 

In  every  living  thing,  it  is  cell  wedded  to  cell, 
communities  of  cells  wedded  to  communities,  and 
all  working  on  a  plan  unknown  to  any  group  of  them. 
Yonder  oak  or  pine  started  from  a  similar  minute 
germ,  and  became  a  vast  cooperative  community, 
or  series  of  cooperative  communities,  of  associate 
cells,  with  no  cell  or  community  directing  the 
whole. 

19 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

The  only  analogue  of  these  things  I  now  think  of 
in  nature  about  us  is  afforded  by  a  swarm  of  bees, 
wherein  all  the  complex  economies  of  the  hive  are 
carried  on  without  a  single  or  separate  seat  of  author- 
ity in  the  hive.  Maeterlinck  aptly  calls  this  invisible 
authority  the  "spirit  of  the  hive"  —  a  name  for 
something  that  we  know  not  of.  So  one  may  say, 
the  spirit  of  the  body,  or  the  spirit  of  the  tree,  deter- 
mines and  controls  all  its  complex  economies,  and 
makes  of  it  a  unit. 

The  cells  that  are  the  architects  of  one  man's  body 
cannot  be  distinguished  from  the  cells  that  build 
another  man's  body,  yet  behold  the  difference 
between  the  two  men  —  in  size,  disposition,  brain- 
power! It  looks  as  if  there  were  something  in  the 
man  that  is  not  of  his  cells. 

Indeed,  the  mystery  of  the  cell  has  never  been 
penetrated.  A  man,  like  every  other  animal,  begins 
in  a  speck  of  nucleated  protoplasm  —  so  small  that 
it  seems  to  be  almost  at  the  vanishing  point;  yet  in 
that  microscopical  entity  there  may  slumber  a 
Shakespeare,  a  Newton,  a  Darwin,  a  Lincoln,  with 
all  the  complex  inheritance  of  race  and  of  family 
traits,  and  with  all  the  wondrous  individual  endow- 
ments of  mental  powers. 

That  cell,  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  is  a  world  in 

itself.   It  divides  and  subdivides,  and  its  progeny, 

apparently  of  their  own  motion,  begin  to  organize 

the  human  body  and  to  build  it  up,  as  I  have  said. 

20 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

They  resolve  themselves  into  communities,  or 
co-fraternities,  each  brotherhood  with  its  own  special 
work  to  do. 

IV 

How  can  one  help  marveling  at  the  voyage  we 
are  making  on  this  planet?  One  has  to  lift  one's  self 
up  and  use  one's  imagination  to  see  that  it  is  a  voy- 
age, and  that  our  course  lies  through  the  star-paved 
abysses  of  infinite  space.  Few  of  us  ever  see  it  or 
realize  it  in  all  its  awful  grandeur.  But  sometimes, 
as  we  look  up  at  the  night  sky,  we  are  surprised  out 
of  our  habitual  stolidity  and  blindness;  the  mind 
opens  for  a  moment,  and  we  see  the  Infinite  face  to 
face;  the  veil  is  withdrawn,  and  the  rays  from 
myriads  of  orbs  penetrate  to  the  soul. 

Oh,  the  worlds  and  systems  of  worlds  that  the 
night  reveals,  —  the  outlook  off  into  infinity  which 
the  darkness  brings!  When  the  day  is  done,  when 
the  night  falls,  how  are  the  heavens  opened!  how 
is  the  universe  extended !  how  are  the  glory  and  the 
sublimity  of  creation  multiplied!  Out  of  the  deep 
shadow  of  the  earth  what  lights  we  behold!  what 
rays  penetrate  to  us  from  the  farthermost  depths 
of  space!  When  the  sun  is  gone,  myriads  of  other 
suns  are  born.  Without  this  negation  called  dark- 
ness how  little  we  should  suspect  the  awful  gran- 
deurs that  compass  us  about!  The, day  sjiutsjis  in, 
the  sky  is  a  roof  that  confines  us;  the  night  lets  us 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

out  into  the  great  out-of-doors  of  the  universe.  We 
feel  the  infinite  space,  we  confront  the  star-paved 
abyss;  the  constellations  shock  us  out  of  our  prose 
and  humdrum;  they  reveal  to  us  how  wild  and 
terrific  and  unfathomable  is  the  sea  over  which  we 
are  voyaging. 

What  does  not  the  imagination  of  man,  the  spirit 
of  man  owe  to  the  night  —  the  revelation  or  the 
apocalypse  of  the  darkness?  The  night  is  spiritual; 
how  it  hides  all  things  secular,  how  it  blots  out  the 
common  and  the  wearisome,  how  it  stirs  and  stimu- 
lates our  religious  emotions,  how  it  nourishes  our 
sense  of  mystery,  and  of  the  profound !  It  adds  the 
transcendental,  the  immeasurable,  to  our  world. 
It  uncovers  the  heavens;  they  have  a  new  meaning 
when  we  have  walked  under  them  at  night. 

I  would  not  forget  the  debt  we  owe  to  the  day; 
life  itself,  and  all  that  sustains  it,  light  and  warmth, 
cloud  and  sun,  brought  us  here  and  keep  us  here. 
The  gifts  of  the  night  are  less  tangible;  the  night 
does  not  come  with  fruit  and  flowers  and  bread  and 
meat ;  it  comes  with  stars  and  star-dust,  with  mystery 
and  nirvana. 

I  am  a  creature  of  the  day;  I  belong  to  the  open, 
cheerful,  optimistic  day.  Few  of  my  habits  or  feel- 
ings are  nocturnal.  I  am  not  a  prowler,  nor  a 
burner  of  midnight  oil,  nor  a  lover  of  the  spectral 
or  the  obscure.  I  bring  all  things  to  the  test  of  the 
sunlight;  my  mind  works  best,  and  my  faith  is 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

strongest,  when  the  day  is  waxing  and  not  waning. 
Yet  now  I  ana  in  the  mood  to  praise  the  night,  the 
not-day,  the  great  shadow  which  is  a  telescope 
through  which  we  see  the  Infinite. 

The  night  that  rounds  the  day  of  life  is  surely 
near  all  septuagenarians;  the  shadows  deepen  around 
us.  When  the  darkness  falls,  will  the  heavens  indeed 
be  unveiled  —  the  unquenchable  lights  meet  our 
gaze? 

In  every  man's  life  we  may  read  some  lesson. 
What  may  be  read  in  mine?  If  I  myself  see  correctly, 
it  is  this :  that  one  may  have  a  happy  and  not  alto- 
gether useless  life  on  cheap  and  easy  terms;  that 
the  essential  things  are  always  near  at  hand;  that 
one's  own  door  opens  upon  the  wealth  of  heaven 
and  earth;  and  that  all  things  are  ready  to  serve  and 
cheer  one.  IMe js.  ajstruggle,  but  not  a  warfare,  it 
is  a  day's  labor,  but  labor  on  God's  earth,  under  the 
sun  and  stars  with  other  laborers,  where  we  may 
think  and  sing  and  rejoice  as  we  work. 


n 

IN   "THE   CIRCUIT   OF   THE   SUMMER 
HILLS" 


TO  sit  on  one's  rustic  porch,  or  at  the  door  of 
one's  tent,  and  see  the  bees  working  on  the 
catnip  or  motherwort  or  clover,  to  see  the  cattle 
grazing  leisurely  in  the  fields  or  ruminating  under 
the  spreading  trees,  or  the  woodchucks  creeping 
about  the  meadows  and  pastures,  or  the  squirrels 
spinning  along  the  fences,  or  the  hawks  describing 
great  spirals  against  the  sky;  to  hear  no  sound  but 
the  voice  of  birds,  the  caw  of  crows,  the  whistle  of 
marmots,  the  chirp  of  crickets;  to  smell  no  odors 
but  the  odors  of  grassy  fields,  or  blooming  meadows, 
or  falling  rain;  amid  it  all,  to  lift  one's  eyes  to  the 
flowing  and  restful  mountain  lines  —  this  'is  to  get 
a  taste  of  the  peace  and  comfort  of  the  summer  hills. 
This  boon  is  mine  when  I  go  to  my  little  gray 
farmhouse  on  a  broad  hill-slope  on  the  home  farm 
in  the  Catskills.  Especially  is  it  mine  when,  to  get 
still  nearer  nature  and  beyond  the  orbit  of  house- 
hold sounds  and  interruptions,  I  retreat  to  the  big 
hay-barn,  and  on  an  improvised  table  in  front  of  the 
big  open  barn  doors,  looking  out  into  the  sunlit 
24 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

fields  where  I  hoed  corn  or  made  hay  as  a  boy,  I 
write  this  and  other  papers. 

The  peace  of  the  hills  is  about  me  and  upon  me, 
and  the  leisure  of  the  summer  clouds,  whose  shadows 
I  see  slowly  drifting  across  the  face  of  the  landscape, 
is  mine.  The  dissonance  and  the  turbulence  and 
the  stenches  of  cities  —  how  far  off  they  seem !  the 
noise  and  the  dust  and  the  acrimony  of  politics  — 
how  completely  the  hum  of  the  honey-bees  and  the 
twitter  of  swallows  blot  them  all  out! 

In  the  circuit  of  the  hills,  the  days  take  form  and 
character  as  they  do  not  in  town,  or  in  a  country  of 
low  horizons.  George  Eliot  says  in  one  of  her  letters : 
"In  the  country  the  days  have  broad  open  spaces, 
and  the  very  stillness  seems  to  give  a  delightful 
roominess  to  the  hours."  This  is  especially  true  in  a 
hilly  and  mountainous  country,  where  the  eye  has 
a  great  depth  of  perspective  opened  to  it.  Take 
those  extra  brilliant  days  that  we  so  often  have  in 
the  autumn  —  what  a  vivid  sense  one  gets  of  their 
splendor  amid  the  hills!  The  deep,  cradle-like  val- 
leys, and  the  long  flowing  mountain  lines,  make  a 
fit  receptacle  for  the  day's  beauty;  they  hold  and 
accumulate  it,  as  it  were.  I  think  of  Emerson's 
line :  — 

"  Oh,  tenderly  the  haughty  day  fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire." 

The  valleys  are  vast  blue  urns  that  hold  a  generous 
portion  of  the  lucid  hours ! 
25 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

To  feel  to  the  full  the  peace  of  the  hills,  one  must 
choose  his  hills,  and  see  to  it  that  they  are  gentle 
and  restful  in  character.  Abruptness,  jagged  lines, 
sharp  angles,  frowning  precipices,  while  they  may 
add  an  element  of  picturesqueness,  interfere  with 
the  feeling  of  ease  and  restfulness  that  the  peace  of 
the  hills  implies.  The  eye  is  disturbed  by  a  confusion 
of  broken  and  abrupt  lines  as  is  the  ear  by  a  volume 
of  discordant  sounds.  Long,  undulating  mountain 
lines,  broad,  cradle-like  valleys,  easy  basking  hill- 
slopes,  as  well  as  the  absence  of  loud  and  discordant 
sounds,  are  a  factor  in  the  restfulness  of  any  land- 
scape. 

My  landscape  is  very  old  geologically,  as  old  as 
the  order  of  vertebrate  animals,  but  young  histori- 
cally, having  been  settled  only  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years.  The  original  forests  still  cover  the 
tops  of  the  mountains  with  a  dark-green  mantle, 
which  comes  well  down  upon  their  sides,  where  it  is 
cut  and  torn  and  notched  into  by  the  upper  fields 
of  the  valley  farms. 

I  call  my  place  Woodchuck  Lodge,  as  I  tell  my 
friends,  because  we  are  beleagured  by  these  rodents. 
There  is  a  cordon  of  woodchuck-holes  all  around  us. 
In  the  orchard,  in  the  meadows,  in  the  pastures, 
these  whistling  marmots  have  their  dens.  Here  one 
might  easily  have  woodchuck  venison  for  dinner 
every  day,  yea,  and  for  supper  and  breakfast,  too, 
if  one  could  acquire  a  taste  for  it.  I  tried  to  dine  on 
26 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER   HILLS 

a  woodchuck  once  when  I  was  a  boy,  but  never  have 
felt  inclined  to  repeat  the  experiment.  If  one  were 
born  in  the  woods  and  lived  in  the  woods,  maybe 
he  could  relish  a  woodchuck.  Talk  about  being 
autochthonous,  and  savoring  of  the  soil  —  try  a 
woodchuck!  The  feeding  habits  of  this  animal  are 
as  cleanly  as  those  of  a  sheep  or  a  cow;  clover, 
plantain,  peas,  beans,  cucumbers,  cabbages,  apples 
—  all  sweet  and  succulent  things  —  go  to  the  mak- 
ing of  his  flabby  body;  yet  he  spends  so  much  of  his 
time  in  pickle  in  the  ground  that  his  flesh  is  rank 
with  the  earth  flavor.  He  is  not  lean  like  a  rabbit 
or  a  squirrel,  nor  so  firm  of  muscle  as  a  'coon  or  a 
'possum;  he  is  little  more  than  a  skin  filled  with 
viscera.  He  is  busy  all  summer  storing  up  fat  in  his 
loose  pouch  of  a  body  for  fuel  during  his  long  winter 
sleep.  This  sleep  appears  to  begin  in  late  September, 
or  after  the  first  white  frost.  This  year  I  saw  my  last 
specimen  on  the  28th  of  the  month  as  he  was  run- 
ning in  great  haste  to  his  hole.  Evidently  he  does 
not  like  the  pinch  of  the  cold.  He  is  a  fair-weather 
animal  and  is  the  epicure  of  the  meadows  and  pas- 
tures. While  the  apples  are  still  mellow  on  the 
ground,  while  the  red  thorn  is  still  dropping  its 
fruit,  and  the  aftermath  is  still  fresh  in  the  meadows, 
my  woodchucks  turn  their  backs  upon  the  world  and 
retreat  to  their  underground  chambers  for  their  six 
months'  slumber.  I  know  of  no  other  hibernating 
animal  that  retires  from  the  light  of  day  so  early  in 
27 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

the  season.  His  active  life  stretches  from  the  vernal 
equinox  to  the  autumnal  equinox,  and  that  is  about 
all.  Half  the  year  he  is  under  ground,  and  at  least 
half  of  each  summer  day.  No  wonder  his  flesh  is 
rank  with  the  earth  flavor.  He  appears  to  live  only 
to  accumulate  his  winter  store  of  fat.  Apparently 
he  comes  out  of  his  den  in  summer  only  to  feed,  and 
maybe  occasionally  to  bask  in  the  sunshine.  He  is 
never  sportive  or  discursive  like  the  birds  and  squir- 
rels. Life  is  a  very  serious  business  with  him,  and 
he  has  reduced  it  to  the  lowest  terms  —  eat,  breed, 
and  sleep.  If  woodchucks  ever  engage  in  any  sort 
of  play,  like  other  wild  creatures,  I  never  have  seen 
them,  though  I  once  had  a  tame  young  'chuck  that 
would  play  with  the  kitten. 

The  woodchuck  probably  sleeps  more  than  half 
the  time  in  summer;  he  economizes  his  precious  fat. 
Only  once  have  I  seen  his  tracks  on  the  snow.  This 
was  in  late  December;  and,  following  them  up,  I 
found  the  woodchuck  wandering  about  the  meadow 
like  one  half  demented.  Something  had  evidently 
gone  wrong  with  him.  Apparently  he  had  not 
succeeded  in  storing  up  his  usual  amount  of  fat. 
He  showed  little  fight,  and  we  picked  him  up 
by  the  tail,  put  him  into  the  sleigh,  and  brought 
him  home.  A  place  under  the  barn  floor  was 
given  to  him,  but  he  did  not  long  survive.  All 
the  glory  of  the  fall,  the  heyday  of  the  'coon  and 
the  squirrels,  the  woodchuck  misses.  No  golden 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER   HILLS 

October,   no  Indian  summer  for  him;  he  has  had 
his  day. 

Though  the  woodchuck's  muscles  are  flabby,  his 
heart  is  stout.  The  farm-dog  can  kill  him,  but  he 
cannot  make  him  show  fear  or  dismay;  he  is  game 
to  the  last.  Twice  I  have  seen  him  from  my  porch 
at  Woodchuck  Lodge  put  on  so  bold  a  front  and 
become  so  aggressive,  when  surprised  in  the  middle 
of  a  field  by  a  big  shepherd-dog,  that  the  dog  did 
not  dare  attack  him,  but  circled  about,  seeking  some 
unfair  advantage,  only  to  be  met  at  every  point 
with  those  threatening,  grating  teeth.  The  wood- 
chuck  was  far  from  his  hole,  and  he  kept  charging 
the  dog  and  driving  him  nearer  and  nearer  the  stone 
wall,  where  his  own  safety  lay.  An  observer  inocu- 
lated with  the  idea  of  animal  reason  would  have  said 
that  the  tactics  of  the  'chuck  were  premeditated; 
but  I  am  sure  he  was  too  much  engrossed  with  the 
task  of  defending  himself  from  the  jaws  of  that  dog 
to  do  any  logical  thinking  or  planning.  It  was  only 
the  fortune  of  battle  that  finally  brought  the  hunter 
and  the  hunted  near  the  hole  of  safety,  when,  seeing 
his  chance,  the  woodchuck  made  a  sudden,  success- 
ful dash,  too  hurried,  I  fancy,  even  to  whistle  his 
usual  note  of  defiance.  In  the  other  case,  the  dog 
was  of  a  still  more  timid  nature,  and  when  the  sur- 
prised woodchuck  showed  fight,  he  concluded  that 
he  had  no  business  at  all  with  that  particular  'chuck, 
which  actually  chased  him  from  the  meadow.  I  can 
29 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

still  see  the  woodchuck's  bristling,  expanded  tail  as 
he  drove  fiercely  after  the  fleeing  dog,  which,  with 
a  tail  anything  but  threatening,  escaped  over  the 
wall  into  the  road. 

I  find  that  one  may  be  the  principal  actor  in  a 
little  comedy,  and  not  see  the  humor  of  it  at  all  at 
the  time.  I  know  the  humor  of  a  race  I  had  with  a 
'chuck  last  summer  in  my  orchard  was  quite  lost 
upon  me  till  it  was  over,  when  the  'chuck  was  in  his 
hole,  and  I  was  back  upon  my  porch  recovering  my 
wind.  The  'chuck  was  a  hundred  yards  or  more 
from  his  den  when  I  leaped  over  the  fence  from  the 
road  and  surprised  him.  I  pressed  him  so  closely 
that  he  took  refuge  in  an  apple-tree.  Instantly  see- 
ing his  mistake,  as  the  missile  I  hurled  struck  the 
tree,  he  sprang  down  and  rushed  for  his  hole,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  away.  But  I  got  there  first. 
The  'chuck  paused  twenty  feet  to  one  side  and 
regarded  me  intently,  defiantly.  We  stood  and 
glared  at  each  other  a  few  moments,  while  I  recov- 
ered my  breath.  I  wanted  the  scalp  of  that  "var- 
mint." I  knew  that  he  would  make  himself  believe 
that  I  had  planted  my  garden  for  his  special  benefit, 
and  I  wanted  to  anticipate  that  conclusion.  I  was 
weaponless.  Twenty  or  more  feet  from  me,  on^the 
opposite  side  from  the  'chuck,  I  saw  a  stone  that 
would  answer  my  purpose.  I  calculated  the  chances ; 
so  did  the  woodchuck;  I  sprang  for  the  stone  and 
the  'chuck  sprang  for  his  hole,  and  was  in  it  as  my 
30 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

hand  touched  the  stone.  He  had  won !  As  I  sat  on 
my  porch,  the  recklessness  and  absurdity  of  a  man 
more  than  threescore  and  ten  running  down  a  wood- 
chuck  came  over  me;  and  I  have  not  yielded  to  such 
a  temptation  since. 

ii 

Where  cattle  and  woodchucks  thrive,  there  thrive 
I.  The  pastoral  is  in  my  veins.  Clover  and  timothy, 
daisies  and  buttercups  indirectly  colored  my  youth- 
ful life;  and  if  the  dairy  cow  did  not  rock  my  cradle, 
her  products  sustained  the  hand  that  did  rock  it. 
Hence  I  love  this  land  of  wide,  open,  grassy  fields, 
of  smooth,  broad-backed  hills,  and  of  long,  flowing 
mountain  lines.  The  cow  fits  well  into  these  scenes. 
It  seems  as  if  her  broad,  smooth  muzzle  and  her 
sweeping  tongue  might  have  shaped  the  landscape; 
it  is  certainly  her  cropping  that  has  brought  about 
the  hourglass  form  of  so  many  of  the  red  thorn 
trees,  which  give  a  unique  feature  to  the  fields.  Her 
fragrant  breath  is  upon  the  air,  her  hoof -prints  are 
upon  the  highway;  she  may  not  yet  have  attained 
to  wisdom,  yet  surely  all  her  ways  are  ways  of 
pleasantness  and  all  her  paths  are  paths  of  peace. 
Hence,  when  her  ways  and  her  paths  coincide  with 
mine,  I  thrive  best.  From  Woodchuck  Lodge  I  look 
out  upon  broad  pastures,  lands  where  dairy  herds 
have  grazed  for  a  hundred  years,  never  the  same 
herd  for  many  summers,  but  all  of  the  same  habits 
31 


SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

and  dispositions.  They  all  scour  the  pastures  in  the 
same  way,  scattering,  searching  out  every  nook  and 
corner,  leaving  no  yard  of  ground  unvisited,  appar- 
ently hunting  each  day  for  the  sweet  morsel  they 
missed  the  day  before,  disposing  themselves  in  pic- 
turesque groups  upon  the  hills;  never  massed,  except 
under  the  shade-trees  on  hot  days;  slow-moving, 
making  their  paths  here  and  there,  lingering  under 
the  red  thorn  trees,  where  the  fruit  begins  to  drop 
in  September;  tossing  their  heads  above  the  orchard 
wall,  where  the  fragrance  of  ripening  apples  is  on 
the  air;  in  the  autumn  lying  upon  the  cold,  damp 
ground  and  ruminating  contentedly,  with  no  fear 
of  our  ills  and  pains  before  them;  wading  in  the 
swamps,  converging  slowly  toward  the  pasture- 
bars  as  milking-time  draws  nigh,  with  always  some 
tardy,  indifferent  ones  that  the  farm-dog  has  to 
hurry  up;  many-colored,  —  white,  black,  red, 
brown,  —  at  times  showing  rare  gentleness  and 
affection  toward  one  another,  such  as  licking  one 
another's  heads  or  bodies,  then  spitefully  butting 
or  goring  one  another;  occasionally  one  of  them  lift- 
ing up  her  head  and  sending  her  mellow  voice  over 
the  hills  like  a  horn,  as  if  to  give  voice  to  a  vague 
unrest,  or  invoking  some  far-off  divinity  to  release 
the  imprisoned  lo  —  what  a  series  of  shifting  rural 
pictures  I  thus  have  spread  out  before  me !  Such  an 
atmosphere  of  peace  and  leisure  over  it  all!  The 
unhurrying  and  ruminating  cattle  make  the  days 
32 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

long;  they  make  the  fields  friendly,  the  hills  eloquent, 
the  shade-trees  idyllic.  I  wake  up  to  hear  the  farmer 
summoning  them  from  the  field  in  the  dewy  summer 
dawns,  and  I  listen  for  his  call  to  them  on  the  tran- 
quil afternoons.  One  season  an  especially  musical 
voice  did  the  evening  calling  —  a  trained  voice  from 
beyond  the  hills.  What  a  pleasure  it  was  as  we 
swung  in  our  hammocks  under  the  apple-trees  to 
hear  the  free,  sonorous  summons,  and  to  see  the 
response  of  the  herd  in  many-colored  lines  converg- 
ing down  the  slope  to  the  barway ! 

When  the  meadows  have  gotten  a  new  carpet  of 
tender  grass  in  September,  and  the  cows  are  free  to 
range  in  them,  a  new  series  of  moving  pictures  greets 
the  eye.  The  grazing  forms  have  a  finer  setting  now, 
and  contentment  and  satisfaction  are  in  every  move- 
ment. How  they  sweep  off  the  tender  herbage,  into 
what  artistic  groups  they  naturally  fall,  what  pic- 
tures of  peace  and  plenty  they  present !  When  they 
lie  down  to  ruminate,  Emerson's  sentence  comes  to 
mind:  "And  the  cattle  lying  on  the  ground  seem  to 
have  great  and  tranquil  thoughts."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  suppose  no  more  vacant  mind  could  be  found 
in  the  universe  than  that  of  the  cow  when  she  is 
reposing  in  a  field  chewing  her  cud.  But  she  is  the 
cause  of  tranquil  if  not  of  great  thoughts  in  the 
lookers-on,  and  that  is  enough.  Tranquillity  attends 
her  wherever  she  goes;  it  beams  from  her  eyes,  and 
lingers  in  her  footsteps. 

33 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

I  sympathize  with  Whitman  as  he  expressed  him- 
self in  these  lines :  — 

"I  think  I  could  turn  "and  live  with  the  animals,  they  are  so 

placid  and  self-contain'd. 
I  stand  and  look  at  them,  long  and  long. 

"They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition, 
They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins, 
They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God. 
Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania  of 

owning  things, 
Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thousands 

of  years  ago, 
Not  one  is  respectable  or  happy  over  the  whole  earth." 


Ill 

If  one  has  a  bit  of  the  farmer  in  him,  it  is  a 
pleasure  in  the  country  to  have  a  real  farmer  for  a 
neighbor  —  a  man  whose  heart  is  in  his  work,  who 
is  not  longing  for  the  town  or  the  city,  who  improves 
his  fields,  who  makes  two  spears  of  grass  grow  where 
none  grew  before,  whose  whole  farm  has  an  atmo- 
sphere of  thrift  and  well-being.  There  are  so  many 
reluctant,  half-hearted  farmers  in  our  Eastern 
States  nowadays,  so  many  who  do  only  what  they 
have  to  do  in  order  to  survive;  who  leave  the  pater- 
nal acres  to  run  to  weeds  or  brush;  the  paternal 
fences  to  fall  into  ruins;  the  paternal  orchards 
untrimmed  and  unploughed;  the  paternal  meadows 
unfertilized,  while  the  fertilizer  wastes  in  the  barn- 
yard; who  get  but  one  spear  of  grass  where  their 
34 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

fathers  or  grandfathers  got  two  or  three;  and  whose 
plaint  always  is  that  farming  does  not  pay.  What 
is  the  matter  with  our  rural  population?  Has  all  the 
good  farming  blood  gone  West,  and  do  only  the 
dregs  of  it  remain? 

It  is  the  man  who  makes  the  farm,  as  truly  as  it 
is  the  man  who  makes  any  other  business;  it  is  the 
man  behind  the  plough,  as  truly  as  it  is  the  man 
behind  the  gun,  that  wins  the  battle.  A  half-heart 
never  won  a  whole  sheaf  yet.  The  average  farmer 
has  deteriorated.  He  may  know  more,  but  he  does 
less,  than  his  father.  He  is  like  the  second  or  third 
steeping  of  the  tea.  Did  the  original  settlers  and 
improvers  of  the  farms,  and  the  generations  that 
followed  them,  leave  all  their  virtue  and  grip  in  the 
soil?  It  is  certainly  true  that  in  my  section  the  last 
two  generations  have  lived  off  the  capital  of  labor 
and  brains  which  their  ancestors  put  into  the  land; 
only  here  and  there  has  a  man  added  anything,  only 
here  and  there  is  a  farmer  who  does  not  wish  he 
had  some  other  business.  If  such  men  had  that 
other  business,  they  would  reap  the  same  poor 
results.  In  the  long  run,  you  cannot  reap  where  you 
have  not  sown,  and  the  only  seed  you  can  sow,  in 
any  business  that  yields  tenfold,  is  yourself  —  your 
own  wit,  your  own  industry.  Unless  you  plant  your 
heart  with  your  corn,  it  will  mostly  go  to  suckers; 
unless  you  strike  your  own  roots  into  the  subsoil  of 
your  lands,  it  will  not  bear  fruit  in  your  character, 
35 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

or  in  your  bank  account  —  all  of  which  is  simply 
saying  that  thin,  leachy  land  will  not  bear  good 
crops,  and  unless  a  man  has  the  real  farming  stuff 
in  him,  his  farm  quickly  shows  it. 

My  neighbor  makes  smooth  the  way  of  the  plough 
and  of  the  mower.  Last  summer  I  saw  him  take 
enough  stones  and  rocks  from  a  three-acre  field  to 
build  quite  a  fortress;  and  land  whose  slumbers  had 
never  been  disturbed  with  the  plough  was  soon  knee- 
high  with  Hungarian  grass.  How  one  likes  to  see  a 
permanent  betterment  of  the  land  like  that!  — piles 
of  renegade  stone  and  rock.  It  is  such  things  that 
make  the  country  rjcher.  If  all  New  England  and 
New  York  had  had  such  drastic  treatment  years 
ago,  the  blight  of  discouraged  farming  never  would 
have  fallen  upon  them,  and  the  prairie  States  would 
not  have  so  far  distanced  the  granite  States.  A 
granite  soil  should  grow  a  better  crop  of  men  than 
the  silt  of  lake  or  river-bottom,  though  it  yields  less 
corn  to  the  acre. 

The  prairie  makes  a  strong  appeal  to  a  man's 
indolence  and  cupidity;  it  is  a  place  where  he  can 
sit  at  ease  and  let  his  team  do  most  of  his  work.  But 
I  much  doubt  whether  the  Western  farms  ever  will 
lay  the  strong  hands  upon  their  possessors  that  our 
more  varied  and  picturesque  Eastern  farms  lay. 
Every  field  in  these  farms  has  a  character  of  its 
own,  and  the  farms  differ  from  one  another  as  much 
as  the  people  do.  An  Eastern  farm  is  the  place  for 
36 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

a  home;  the  Western  farm  is  the  place  to  grow 
wheat,  pork,  and  beef.  Oh,  the  flat,  featureless, 
monotonous,  cornstalk-littered  Middle  West!  how 
can  the  rural  virtues  of  contentment  and  domesticity 
thrive  there?  There  is  no  spot  to  make  your  nest 
except  right  out  on  the  rim  of  the  world;  no  spot 
for  a  walk  or  a  picnic  except  in  the  featureless  open 
of  a  thousand  miles  of  black  prairie  —  the  roads 
black,  straight  lines  of  mud  or  dust  through  the 
landscape;  the  streams  slow,  indolent  channels  of 
muddy  water;  the  woods,  where  there  are  woods,  a 
dull  assemblage  of  straight-trunked  trees;  the  sky  a 
brazen  dome  that  shuts  down  upon  you;  there  are 
no  hills  or  mountains  to  lift  it  up.  The  prairie 
draws  no  strong  distinct  lines  against  the  sky;  the 
horizon  is  vague  and  baffling.  Ah,  my  mountains 
are  very  old  measured  by  the  geologic  calendar! 
Yet  how  foreign  to  our  experience  or  ways  of  think- 
ing it  seems  to  speak  of  mountains  as  either  old  or 
young,  as  if  birth  and  death  applied  to  them  also.  But 
such  is  the  fact:  mountains  have  their  day,  which 
day  is  the  geologist's  day  of  millions  of  years.  My 
mountains  were  being  carved  out  of  a  great  plateau 
by  the  elements  while  the  prairies  were  still  under 
the  sea,  and  while  most  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 
and  the  Alps  and  the  Himalayas  were  gestating  in 
the  vast  earth-womb.  In  point  of  age,  these  moun- 
tains beside  the  Catskills  are  like  infants  beside 
their  great-grandfathers.  Yet  it  is  a  singular  con- 
37 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

tradiction  that  in  their  outlines  old  mountains  look 
young,  and  young  mountains  look  old.  The  only 
youthful  feature  about  young  mountains  is  that 
they  carry  their  heads  very  high,  and  the  only  old 
feature  about  old  mountains  is  that  they  have  a 
look  of  repose  and  calmness  and  peace.  All  the 
gauntness,  leanness,  angularity,  and  crumbling  de- 
crepitude are  with  the  young  mountains;  all  the 
smoothness,  plumpness,  graceful,  flowing  lines  of 
youth  are  with  the  old  mountains.  Not  till  the  rocks 
are  clothed  with  soil  made  out  of  their  own  decay 
are  outlines  softened  and  life  made  possible.  Youth- 
ful mountains  like  the  Alps  are  battle-marked  by 
the  elements,  and  their  proud  heads  are  continually 
being  laid  low  by  frost,  wind,  and  snow;  they  are 
scarred  and  broken  by  avalanches  the  season 
through.  Old  mountains,  such  as  the  Appalachian 
System,  wear  an  armor  of  soil  and  verdure  over 
their  rounded  forms  on  which  the  arrows  of  Time 
have  little  effect.  The  turbulent  and  noisy  and  stiff- 
necked  period  of  youth  is  far  behind  them. 

Hundreds  of  dairy-farms  nestle  in  the  laps  of  the 
Catskills;  and  their  huge,  grassy  aprons,  only  a 
little  wrinkled  here  and  there,  hold  as  many  grazing 
herds.  Woodchuck  Lodge  is  well  upon  the  knee  of 
one  of  the  ranges,  and  the  fields  we  look  upon  are 
like  green  drapery  lying  in  graceful  curves  and 
broad,  smooth  masses  over  huge  extended  limbs. 
Patches  of  maple  forest  here  and  there  bend  over 
38 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

a  rounded  arm  or  shoulder,  like  a  fur  cape  upon  a 
woman.  Here  and  there  also  huge,  weather-worn 
boulders  rest  upon  the  ground,  dropped  there  by  the 
moving  ice-sheet  tens  upon  tens  of  thousands  of 
years  ago;  and  here  and  there  are  streaks  of  land 
completely  covered  with  smaller  rocks  wedged  and 
driven  into  the  ground.  It  used  to  be  told  me  in  my 
youth  that  the  devil's  apron-string  broke  as  he 
was  carrying  a  load  of  these  rocks  overhead,  and  let 
the  mass  down  upon  the  ground.  The  farmers 
seldom  attempt  to  clear  away  these  leavings  of  the 
devil. 

IV 

My  interest  in  the  birds  is  not  as  keen  as  it  once 
was,  but  they  are  still  an  asset  in  my  life.  I  must 
live  where  I  can  hear  the  crows  caw,  the  robins  sing, 
and  the  song-sparrow  trill.  If  I  can  hear  also  the 
partridge  drum,  and  the  owl  hoot,  and  the  chip- 
munk cluck  in  the  still  days  of  autumn,  so  much  the 
better.  The  crow  is  such  a  true  countryman,  so 
much  at  home  everywhere,  so  thoroughly  in  posses- 
sion of  the  land,  going  his  way  winter  and  summer 
in  such  noisy  contentment  and  pride  of  possession, 
that  I  cannot  leave  him  out.  The  bird  I  missed 
most  in  California  was  the  crow.  I  missed  his  glis- 
tening coat  in  the  fields,  his  ebony  form  and  hearty 
call  in  the  sky. 

One  advantage  of  sleeping  out  of  doors,  as  we  do 
39 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

at  Woodchuck  Lodge,  is  that  you  hear  the  day 
ushered  in  by  the  birds.  Toward  autumn  you  hear 
the  crows  first,  making  proclamation  in  all  directions 
that  it  is  time  to  be  up  and  doing,  and  that  life  is  a 
good  thing.  There  is  not  a  bit  of  doubt  or  discour- 
agement in  their  tones.  They  have  enjoyed  the 
night,  and  they  have  a  stout  heart  for  the  day. 
They  proclaim  it  as  they  fly  over  my  porch  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  they  call  it  from  the  orchard, 
they  bandy  the  message  back  and  forth  in  the  neigh- 
boring fields;  the  air  is  streaked  with  cheery  greet- 
ings and  raucous  salutations.  Toward  the  end  of 
August,  or  in  early  September,  I  witness  with  pleas- 
ure their  huge  mass  meetings  or  annual  congress  on 
the  pasture  hills  or  in  the  borders  of  the  woods.  Be- 
fore that  time,  you  see  them  singly  or  in  loose  bands; 
but  on  some  day  in  late  summer,  or  in  early  autumn, 
you  see  the  clans  assemble  as  if  for  some  rare  festival 
and  grand  tribal  discussion.  A  multitudinous  caw- 
ing attracts  your  attention,  when  you  look  hillward 
and  see  a  swarm  of  dusky  forms  circling  in  the  air, 
their  voices  mingling  in  one  dissonant  wave  of  sound, 
while  loose  bands  of  other  dusky  forms  come  from 
all  points  of  the  compass  to  join  them.  Presently 
many  hundred  crows  are  assembled,  alternately 
lighted  upon  the  ground  and  silently  walking  about 
as  if  feeding,  or  circling  in  the  air,  cawing  as  if  they 
would  be  heard  in  the  next  township.  What  they 
are  doing  or  saying  or  settling,  what  it  all  means, 
40 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

whether  they  meet  by  appointment  in  the  human 
fashion,  whether  it  is  a  jubilee,  a  parliament,  or  a  con- 
vention, I  confess  I  should  like  to  know.  But  second 
thought  tells  me  it  is  more  likely  the  gregarious  in- 
stinct asserting  itself  after  the  scatterings  and  sepa- 
rations of  the  summer.  The  time  of  the  rookery  is 
not  far  off,  when  the  inclement  season  will  find  all 
the  crows  from  a  large  section  of  the  country  massed 
at  night  in  lonely  tree-tops  in  some  secluded  wood. 

These  early  noisy  assemblages  may  be  prelimin- 
ary to  the  winter  union  of  the  tribe.  What  an  engross- 
ing affair  it  seems  to  be  with  the  crows !  how  obliv- 
ious they  appear  to  all  else  in  the  world !  The  world 
was  made  for  crows,  and  what  concerns  them  is 
alone  important.  The  meeting  adjourns,  from  time 
to  time,  from  the  fields  to  the  woods,  then  back 
again,  the  Babel  of  voices  waxing  or  waning  accord- 
ing as  they  are  on  the  wing  or  at  rest.  Sometimes 
they  meet  several  days  in  succession  and  then  dis- 
perse, going  away  in  different  directions  and  irregu- 
larly, singly  or  in  pairs  and  bands,  as  men  do  on 
similar  occasions.  No  doubt  in  these  great  reunions 
the  crows  experience  some  sort  of  feeling  or  emotion, 
though  one  would  doubtless  err  in  ascribing  to  them 
anything  like  human  procedure.  It  is  not  a  definite 
purpose,  but  a  tribal  instinct,  that  finds  expression 
in  their  jubilees. 

The  crows  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  of  business 
besides  getting  a  living.  How  social,  how  communi- 
41 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

cative  they  are !  what  picnics  they  have  in  the  fields 
and  woods,  how  absolutely  at  home  they  are  at  all 
times  and  places !  I  see  them  from  my  window  flying 
by,  by  twos  or  threes  or  more,  on  happy,  holiday 
wings,  sliding  down  the  air,  or  diving  and  chasing  one 
another,  or  walking  about  the  fields,  their  coats  glis- 
tening in  the  sun,  the  movement  of  their  heads  tim- 
ing the  movements  of  their  feet  —  what  an  air  of 
independence  and  respectability  and  well-being 
attends  them  always!  The  pedestrian  crow!  No 
more  graceful  walker  ever  trod  the  turf.  How  differ- 
ent his  bearing  from  that  of  a  game-bird,  and  from 
any  of  the  falcon  tribe !  He  never  tries  to  hide  like 
the  former,  never  morose  and  sulky  like  the  latter. 
He  is  gay  and  social  and  in  possession  of  the  land ; 
the  world  is  his  and  he  knows  it,  and  life  is  good. 

I  suppose  that  if  his  flesh  were  edible,  like  that  of 
the  gallinaceous  birds,  he  would  have  many  more 
enemies  and  his  whole  demeanor  would  be  different. 
His  complacent,  self-satisfied  air  would  vanish.  He 
would  not  advertise  his  comings  and  goings  so  loudly. 
He  would  be  less  conspicuous  in  the  landscape;  his 
huge  mass-meetings  in  September  would  be  more 
silent  and  withdrawn.  Well,  then,  he  would  not  be 
the  crow  —  the  happy,  devil-may-care  creature  as 
we  now  know  him. 

His  little  gayly  dressed  brother,  the  jay,  does  not 
tempt  the  sportsman  any  more  than  the  crow  does, 
but  he  tempts  other  creatures  —  the  owl  and  squir- 
42 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

rel,  maybe  the  hawk.  Hence  his  tribe  is  much  less. 
His  range  is  also  more  restricted,  and  his  feeding 
habits  much  less  miscellaneous.  Only  the  woods  and 
groves  are  his;  the  fields  and  rivers  he  knows  not. 

The  crow  is  a  noisy  bird.  All  his  tribe  are  noisy, 
but  the  noise  probably  has  little  psychic  significance. 
The  raven  in  Alaska  appears  to  soliloquize  most  of 
the  time.  This  talkativeness  of  the  crow  tribe  is 
probably  only  a  phase  of  crow  life,  and  signifies  no 
more  and  no  less  than  other  phases  —  their  color, 
their  cunning,  the  flick  of  their  wings,  and  the  like. 
The  barnyard  fowls  are  loquacious  also,  but  prob- 
ably their  loquacity  is  not  attended  with  much 
psychic  activity. 

In  the  mornings  of  early  summer  the  out-of-door 
sleeper  is  more  likely  to  be  awakened  by  the  song- 
birds. In  June  and  early  July  they  strike  up  about 
half -past  three.  "  When  it  is  light  enough  to  see  that 
all  is  well  around  you,  it  is  light  enough  to  sing,*' 
they  carol.  "Before  the  early  worm  is  stirring, 
we  will  celebrate  the  coming  of  day."  During  the 
summer  the  song- sparrows  have  been  the  first  to 
nudge  me  in  the  morning  with  their  songs.  One 
little  sparrow  in  particular  would  perch  on  the  tele- 
phone-wire above  the  roadside  and  go  through  his 
repertoire  of  five  songs  with  great  regularity  and 
joyousness.  He  will  long  be  associated  in  my  mind 
with  those  early,  fragrant,  summer  dawns.  One  of 
his  five  songs  fell  so  easily  into  words  that  I  had  only 
43 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

to  call  the  attention  of  my  friends  to  it  to  have  them 
hear  the  words  that  I  heard,  "If,  if,  if  you  please, 
Mr.  Durkee,"  -  the  last  word  a  little  prolonged, 
and  with  a  rising  inflection.  Another  was  not  quite 
so  well  expressed  by  these  words:  "Please,  please, 
speak  to  me,  sweetheart."  The  third  one  suggested 
this  sentence:  "Then,f,then,  Fitzhugh  says,  yes,  sir!" 
The  fourth  one  was  something  like  this:  "If,  if,  if 
you  seize  her,  do  it  quick."  The  fifth  one  baffled  me 
to  suggest  by  words.  But  in  August  his  musical 
enthusiasm  began  to  decline.  His  different  songs 
lost  their  distinctiveness  and  emphasis.  It  was  as  if 
they  had  faded  and  become  blurred  with  the  prog- 
ress of  the  season. 

The  little  birds  are  insignificant  and  unobtrusive 
on  the  great  background  of  nature,  yet  if  one  learns 
to  distinguish  them  and  to  love  them,  their  songs 
may  become  a  sort  of  accompaniment  to  one's 
daily  life.  Last  May,  while  I  was  much  occupied  in 
repairing  and  making  habitable  my  old  farmhouse, 
a  solitary  mourning  ground- warbler,  which  one 
rarely  sees  or  hears,  came  and  tarried  about  the 
place  for  a  week  or  ten  days,  singing  most  of  each 
forenoon  in  the  orchard  and  garden  about  the  house, 
and  giving  to  my  occupation  a  touch  of  something 
rare  and  sylvan.  He  lent  to  the  old  apple-trees,  which 
I  had  known  as  a  boy,  an  interest  that  the  boy 
knew  not.  Then  he  went  away,  whether  on  the  ar- 
rival of  his  mate  or  not  I  do  not  know. 
44 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER  HILLS 

A  butternut-tree  stands  across  the  road  in  front 
of  Woodchuck  Lodge.  One  season  the  red  squirrels 
stored  the  butternuts  in  the  wall  of  one  of  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  unoccupied  house,  to  which  they 
gained  access  through  a  hole  in  the  siding.  When  we 
moved  in,  in  the  summer,  the  squirrels  soon  became 
uneasy,  and  one  day  one  of  them  began  removing 
the  butternuts,  not  to  some  other  granary  or  place 
of  safety,  but  to  the  grass  and  dry  leaves  on  the 
ground  in  the  orchard.  He  was  unwittingly  planting 
them  by  the  act  of  hiding  them.  The  automatic 
character  of  much  animal  behavior,  the  extent  to 
which  their  lives  flow  in  fixed  channels,  was  well 
seen  in  the  behavior  of  this  squirrel.  His  procedure 
in  transferring  the  nuts  from  his  den  in  the  house  to 
the  ground  in  the  orchard,  a  distance  of  probably 
one  hundred  feet,  was  as  definite  and  regular  as  the 
movement  of  a  piece  of  machinery.  He  would  rush 
up  and  over  the  roof  of  the  house  with  a  nut  in  his 
mouth,  by  those  sharp,  spasmodic  sallies  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  movements  of  the  red  squirrel,  down 
the  corner  of  the  house  to  the  ground  by  the  same 
jerky  movements,  across  some  rubbish  and  open 
ground  in  the  same  manner,  alert  and  cautious,  up 
the  corner  of  a  small  building  ten  feet  high  and 
eight  long,  over  its  roof,  with  arched  tail  and  spread 
feet,  snickering  and  jerking,  down  to  the  ground  on 
the  other  side,  dashing  to  the  trunk  of  an  apple-tree 
ten  feet  away,  up  it  a  few  feet  to  make  an  observa- 
45 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

tion,  then  down  to  the  ground  again,  and  out  into 
the  grass,  where  he  would  carefully  hide  his  nut, 
and  cover  it  with  leaves.  Then  back  to  the  house 
again  he  would  go  by  precisely  the  same  route  and 
with  precisely  the  same  movements,  and  bring  an- 
other nut.  Day  after  day  I  saw  him  thus  engaged 
till  apparently  all  the  nuts  were  removed.  He  prob- 
ably did  not  know  he  was  planting  butternut-trees 
for  other  red  squirrels,  but  that  was  what  he  was 
doing.  The  crows  and  jays  carry  away  and  plant 
acorns  and  chestnuts  in  the  same  way,  thus  often 
causing  a  pine  forest  to  be  succeeded  by  these  trees. 

The  red  squirrel  is  only  an  irregular  storer  of  nuts 
in  the  autumn.  In  this  respect  he  stands  halfway 
between  the  chipmunk  and  the  gray  squirrel,  one  of 
which  regularly  lays  up  winter  stores  and  the  other 
none  at  all.1 

How  diverse  are  the  ways  of  nature  in  reaching 
the  same  end!  Both  the  chipmunk  and  the  wood- 
chuck  lay  up  stores  against  the  needs  of  winter,  the 
latter  in  the  shape  of  fat  upon  his  own  ribs,  and  the 
former  in  the  shape  of  seeds  and  nuts  in  his  den  in 
the  ground;  and  I  fancy  that  one  of  them  is  no  more 
conscious  of  what  he  is  doing  than  the  other.  Ani- 
mals do  not  take  conscious  thought  of  the  future; 
it  is  as  if  something  in  their  organization  took 
thought  for  them.  One  November,  seized  with  the 

1  The  gray  squirrel  hides  nuts  under  the  leaves  and  grass  but 
he  lays  up  no  winter  stores. 

46 


CIRCUIT  OF  THE  SUMMER   HILLS 

cruel  desire  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  question  of 
the  chipmunk's  winter  stores,  I  dug  out  one  after 
he  had  got  his  house  settled  for  the  season.  I  found 
his  den  three  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  ground  — 
just  beyond  the  frost-line  —  and  containing  nearly 
four  quarts  of  various  seeds,  most  of  them  the  little 
black  grains  of  wild  buckwheat  —  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  of  them,  I  estimated  —  all  cleaned  of 
their  husks  as  neatly  as  if  done  by  some  patent  ma- 
chinery. 

How  many  perilous  journeys  along  stone  walls 
and  through  weedy  tangles  this  store  of  seeds  repre- 
sented !  One  would  say  at  least  a  thousand  trips,  be- 
set by  many  dangers  from  hawks  and  cats  and 
weasels  and  other  enemies  of  the  little  rodent. 

The  chipmunk  is  provident;  he  is  a  wise  house- 
keeper, but  one  can  hardly  envy  him  those  three  or 
four  months  of  inaction  in  the  pitchy  darkness  of 
his  subterranean  den.  His  mate  is  not  with  him,  and 
evidently  the  oblivion  of  the  hibernating  sleep,  like 
that  of  the  woodchuck  and  of  certain  mice,  is  not 
his.  The  life  of  the  red  and  gray  squirrels,  who  are 
more  or  less  active  all  winter,  seems  preferable. 
They  lay  up  no  stores  and  are  no  doubt  often  cold 
and  hungry,  but  the  light  of  day  and  the  freedom 
of  the  snow  and  of  the  tree-tops  are  theirs.  Abun- 
dant stores  are  a  good  thing  for  both  man  and  beast, 
but  action,  adventure,  struggle  are  better. 


Ill 

IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 


HOW  surely  the  race  is  working  away  from  the 
attitude  of  mind  toward  life  and  nature  be- 
gotten by  an  age  of  faith,  into  an  attitude  of  mind 
toward  these  things  begotten  by  an  age  of  science! 
However  the  loss  and  gain  may  finally  foot  up,  the 
movement  to  which  I  refer  seems  as  inevitable  as 
fate;  it  is  along  the  line  of  the  mental  evolution  of 
the  race,  and  it  can  be  no  more  checked  or  thwarted 
than  can  the  winds  or  the  tides.  The  disturbance  of 
our  mental  and  spiritual  equilibrium  consequent 
upon  the  change  is  natural  enough. 

The  culture  of  the  race  has  so  long  been  of  a  non- 
scientific  character;  we  have  so  long  looked  upon 
nature  in  the  twilight  of  our  feelings,  of  our  hopes 
and  our  fears,  and  our  religious  emotions,  that  the 
clear  midday  light  of  science  shocks  and  repels  us. 
Our  mental  eyesight  has  not  yet  got  used  to  the 
noonday  glare.  Our  anthropomorphic  views  of  crea- 
tion die  hard,  and  when  they  are  dead  we  feel  or- 
phaned. The  consolations  which  science  offers  do 
not  move  our  hearts.  At  first  the  scientific  explana- 
tion of  the  universe  seems  to  shut  us  into  a  narrower 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

and  lower  world.  The  heaven  of  the  ideal  seems  sud- 
denly clouded  over,  and  we  feel  the  oppression  of 
the  physical.  The  sacred  mysteries  vanish,  and  in 
their  place  we  have  difficult  or  unsolvable  problems. 

Physical  science  magnifies  physical  things.  The 
universe  of  matter  with  its  irrefragable  laws  looms 
upon  our  mental  horizon  larger  than  ever  before,  to 
some  minds  blotting  out  the  very  heavens.  There 
are  no  more  material  things  in  the  world  than  there 
always  have  been,  and  we  are  no  more  dependent 
upon  them  than  has  always  been  the  case,  but  we 
are  more  intently  and  exclusively  occupied  with 
them,  subduing  them  to  our  ever-growing  physical 
and  mental  needs. 

I  am  always  inclined  to  defend  physical  science 
against  the  charge  of  materialism,  and  that  it  is  the 
enemy  of  those  who  would  live  in  the  spirit;  but 
when  I  do  so  I  find  I  am  unconsciously  arguing  with 
myself  against  the  same  half -defined  imputation.  I 
too  at  times  feel  the  weary  weight  of  the  material 
universe  as  it  presses  upon  us  in  a  hundred  ways  in 
our  mechanical  and  scientific  age.  I  well  under- 
stand what  one  of  our  women  writers  meant  the 
other  day  when  she  spoke  of  the  "blank  wall  of 
material  things"  to  which  modern  science  leads  us. 
The  feminine  temperament  —  and  the  literary  and 
artistic  temperament  generally  —  is  quite  likely,  I 
think,  to  feel  something  like  a  blank  wall  shutting 
it  in,  in  the  results  of  modern  physical  sciences.  We 
49 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

feel  it  in  Herbert  Spencer  and  Ernest  Haeckel,  and 
now  and  then  in  such  lambent  spirits  as  Huxley  and 
W.  K.  Clifford.  Matter,  and  the  laws  of  matter, 
and  the  irrefragable  chain  of  cause  and  effect,  press 
hard  upon  us. 

We  feel  this  oppression  in  the  whole  fabric  of  our 
civilization  —  a  civilization  which,  with  all  its  man- 
ifold privileges  and  advantages,  is  probably  to  a 
large  class  of  people  the  most  crushing  and  soul- 
killing  the  race  has  ever  seen.  It  practically  abol- 
ishes time  and  space,  while  it  fills  the  land  with 
noise  and  hurry.  It  arms  us  with  the  forces  of  earth, 
air,  and  water,  while  it  weakens  our  hold  upon  the 
sources  of  personal  power;  it  lengthens  life  while  it 
curtails  leisure;  it  multiplies  our  wants  while  it 
lessens  our  capacity  for  simple  enjoyments;  it  opens 
up  the  heights  and  depths,  while  it  makes  the  life 
of  the  masses  shallow;  it  vastly  increases  the  ma- 
chinery of  education,  while  it  does  so  little  for  real 
culture.  "Knowledge  comes  but  wisdom  lingers," 
because  wisdom  cannot  or  will  not  come  by  rail- 
road, or  automobile,  or  aeroplane,  or  be  hurried  up 
by  telegraph  or  telephone.  She  is  more  likely  to 
come  on  foot,  or  riding  on  an  ass,  or  to  be  drawn  in  a 
one-horse  shay,  than  to  appear  in  any  of  our  chari- 
ots of  fire  and  thunder. 

With  the  rise  of  the  scientific  habit  of  mind  has 
come  the  decline  in  great  creative  literature  and 
art.  With  the  spread  of  education  based  upon  scien- 
50 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

tific  principles,  originality  in  mind  and  in  character 
fades.  Science  tends  to  eliminate  the  local,  the  in- 
dividual; it  favors  the  general,  the  universal.  It 
makes  our  minds  and  characters  all  alike;  it  unifies 
the  nations,  but  it  tames  and,  in  a  measure,  dena- 
tures them.  The  more  we,  live  in  the  scientific 
spirit,  the  spirit  of  material  knowledge,  the  farther 
we  are  from  the  spirit  of  true  literature.  The  more 
we  live  upon  the  breath  of  the  newspaper,  the  more 
will  the  mental  and  spiritual  condition  out  of  which 
come  real  literature  and  art  be  barred  to  us.  The 
more  we  live  in  the  hard,  calculating  business  spirit, 
the  farther  are  we  from  the  spirit  of  the  master  pro- 
ductions; the  more  we  surrender  ourselves  to  the 
feverish  haste  and  competition  of  the  industrial 
spirit,  the  more  the  doors  of  the  heaven  of  the  great 
poems  and  works  of  art  are  closed  to  us. 

Beyond  a  certain  point  in  our  culture,  exact 
knowledge  counts  for  so  much  less  than  sympathy, 
love,  appreciation.  We  may  know  Shakespeare  to 
an  analysis  of  his  last  word  or  allusion,  and  yet  miss 
Shakespeare  entirely.  We  may  know  an  animal  in 
the  light  of  all  the  many  tests  that  laboratory  ex- 
perimentation throws  upon  it,  and  yet  not  really 
know  it  at  all.  We  are  not  content  to  know  what  the 
animal  knows  naturally,  we  want  to  know  what  it 
knows  unnaturally.  We  put  it  through  a  sort  of  in- 
quisitorial torment  in  the  laboratory,  we  starve  it, 
we  electrocute  it,  we  freeze  it,  we  burn  it,  we  incar- 
51 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

cerate  it,  we  vivisect  it,  we  press  it  on  all  sides  and 
in  all  ways,  to  find  out  something  about  its  habits 
or  its  mental  processes  that  is  usually  not  worth 
knowing. 

Well,  we  can  gain  a  lot  of  facts,  such  as  they  are, 
but  we  may  lose  our  own  souls.  This  spirit  has  in- 
vaded school  and  college.  Our  young  people  go  to 
the  woods  with  pencil  and  note-book  in  hand;  they 
drive  sharp  bargains  with  every  flower  and  bird  and 
tree  they  meet;  they  want  tangible  assets  that  can 
be  put  down  in  black  and  white.  Nature  as  a  living 
joy,  something  to  love,  to  live  with,  to  brood  over, 
is  now,  I  fear,  seldom  thought  of.  It  is  only  a  mine 
to  be  worked  and  to  be  through  with,  a  stream  to  be 
fished,  a  tree  to  be  shaken,  a  field  to  be  gleaned. 
With  what  desperate  thoroughness  the  new  men 
study  the  birds;  and  about  all  their  studies  yield  is 
a  mass  of  dry,  unrelated  facts. 

In  school  and  college  our  methods  are  more  and 
more  thorough  and  businesslike,  more  and  more 
searching  and  systematic :  we  would  go  to  the  roots 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  even  if  we  find  a  dead  tree 
on  our  hands.  We  fairly  vivisect  Shakespeare  and 
Milton  and  Virgil.  We  study  a  dead  language  as  if 
it  were  a  fossil  to  be  classified,  and  forget  that  the 
language  has  a  live  literature,  which  is  the  main  con- 
cern. We  study  botany  so  hard  that  we  miss  the 
charm  of  the  flower  entirely;  we  pursue  the  bird 
with  such  a  spirit  of  gain  and  exactitude  that  a 
52 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

stuffed  specimen  in  the  museum  would  do  as  well. 
Biology  in  the  college  class  means  dissecting  cats 
and  rats  and  turtles  and  frogs;  psychology  means 
analogous  experimental  work  in  the  laboratory. 
Well,  we  know  a  lot  that  our  fathers  did  not  know; 
our  schools  and  colleges  are  turning  out  young  men 
and  women  with  more  and  more  facts,  but,  so  it 
often  seems  to  me,  with  less  and  less  manners,  less 
and  less  reverence,  less  and  less  humility,  less  and 
less  steadfastness  of  character. 

In  this  age  of  science  we  have  heaped  up  great  in- 
tellectual riches  of  the  pure  scientific  kind.  Our 
mental  coffers  are  fairly  bursting  with  our  stores  of 
knowledge  of  material  things.  But  what  will  it 
profit  us  if  we  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  our  own 
souls?  Must  our  finer  spiritual  faculties,  whence 
come  our  love,  our  reverence,  our  humility,  and  our 
appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  world,  atrophy  ? 
"Where  there  is  no  vision,  the  people  perish."  Per- 
ish for  want  of  a  clear  perception  of  the  higher  val- 
ues of  life.  Where  there  is  no  vision,  no  intuitive 
perception  of  the  great  fundamental  truths  of  the 
inner  spiritual  world,  science  will  not  save  us.  In 
such  a  case  our  civilization  is  like  an  engine  running 
without  a  headlight.  Spiritual  truths  are  spiritually 
discerned,  material  and  logical  truths  —  all  the 
truths  of  the  objective  world  —  are  intellectually 
discerned.  The  latter  give  us  the  keys  of  power  and 
the  conquest  of  the  earth,  but  the  former  alone  can 
53 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

save  us  —  save  us  from  the  materialism  of  a  scien- 
tific age. 

The  scientific  temperament,  unrelieved  by  a 
touch  of  the  creative  imagination,  is  undoubtedly 
too  prone  to  deny  the  existence  of  everything  be- 
yond its  ken.  But  science  has  its  limitations,  which 
its  greatest  exponents  like  Tyndall  and  Huxley  are 
frank  to  acknowledge. 

All  questions  that  pertain  to  the  world  within  us 
are  beyond  the  reach  of  science.  Science  is  the  com- 
merce of  the  intellect  with  the  physical  or  objective 
world;  the  commerce  of  the  soul  with  the  subjective 
and  invisible  world  is  entirely  beyond  its  sphere. 
The  very  word  "soul"  belongs  to  literature  and  re- 
ligion, and  not  to  science.  Science  has  no  use  for 
such  a  word  because  it  stands  for  something  which 
transcends  its  categories.  Professor  Tyndall  con- 
fessed himself  utterly  unable  to  find  any  logical 
connection  between  the  molecular  activities  of  the 
brain-substance  and  the  phenomenon  of  conscious- 
ness. 

In  trying  to  deal  with  such  a  question,  he  says, 
we  are  on  the  boundary  line  of  the  intellect  where 
the  canons  of  science  fail  us.  Science  denies  all  in- 
fluence of  subjective  phenomena  over  physical  pro- 
cesses. In  the  absence  of  the  empirical  fact,  science 
would  be  bound  to  deny  that  a  man  could  raise  his 
arm  by  an  act  of  volition;  only  "the  phenomena  of 
matter  and  force  come  within  our  intellectual  range." 
54 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

There  are  questions  of  mind  and  there  are  questions 
of  matter;  philosophy  deals  with  the  former,  sci- 
ence with  the  latter.  The  world  of  the  unverifiable 
is  the  world  of  the  soul,  the  world  of  the  verifiable 
is  the  world  of  the  senses.  We  have  our  spiritual 
being  in  the  one  and  our  physical  being  in  the 
other,  and  science  is  utterly  unable  to  bridge  the 
gulf  that  separates  them. 

II 

The  physico-chemical  explanation  of  life  and  of 
consciousness  to  which  modern  science  seems  more 
and  more  inclined,  falls  upon  some  minds  like  a 
shadow.  In  trying  to  explain  life  itself  in  terms  of 
physics  and  chemistry,  science  is  at  the  end  of  its 
tether. 

The  inorganic  world  may  grind  away  like  the 
great  mill  that  it  is,  run  by  heat,  gravity,  chemical 
affinity,  and  the  like,  and  we  are  not  disturbed;  but 
in  the  world  of  organic  matter  we  strike  a  new  prin- 
ciple, and  in  any  interpretation  of  it  in  terms  of  me- 
chanics and  chemistry  alone,  we  feel  matter  press- 
ing in  upon  us  like  the  four  walls  coming  together. 
Why  does  one  dislike  the  suggestion  of  machinery 
in  relation  to  either  our  minds  or  our  bodies?  Why 
does  the  chemico-mechanical  explanation  of  any 
living  thing  give  one  a  chill  like  the  touch  of  cold 
iron?  Is  it  because  we  feel  that  though  life  may  be 
inseparably  connected  with  chemical  and  mechani* 
55 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

cal  principles,  it  is  something  more  than  chemistry 
and  mechanics? 

We  are  something  more  than  machines,  though 
every  principle  of  mechanics  be  operative  in  our 
bodies.  We  are  something  more  than  bundles  of  in- 
stincts and  reflexes  and  automatic  adjustments, 
though  all  these  things  play  a  part  in  our  lives.  We 
are  something  more  than  mere  animals,  though  we 
are  assuredly  of  animal  origin.  The  vital  principle, 
even  the  psychic  principle,  may  not  be  separable 
from  matter,  not  even  in  thought,  and  yet  it  is  not 
matter,  because  the  matter  with  which  it  is  identi- 
fied behaves  so  differently  from  the  matter  with 
which  it  is  not  identified.  Organic  matter  behaves 
so  differently  from  inorganic,  though  subject  to  the 
same  physical  laws.  A  stone  may  rot  or  disinte- 
grate, but  it  will  never  ferment,  because  fermenta- 
tion is  a  process  of  life.  There  is  no  life  without 
chemical  reactions,  and  yet  chemical  reaction  is  not 
life;  there  is  no  life  without  what  biologists  call  the 
colloid  state,  and  yet  the  colloid  state  is  not  life. 
Life  is  confined  to  a  certain  scale  of  temperature  — 
beyond  a  certain  degree  up  and  down  the  scale  life 
disappears,  and  yet  life  is  not  heat  or  motion,  or 
moisture  or  chemical  affinity,  though  inseparable 
from  these  things. 

The  biological  view  of  our  animal  origin  is  an  un- 
congenial fact,  and  we  may  struggle  against  it,  but 
we  cannot  escape  it.  Science  has  fixed  this  brand 
56 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

upon  us.  "Brand,"  I  say,  but  have  we  not  always 
recognized  our  animality  and  known  that  the  wolf 
and  the  tiger  slumbered  in  us?  We  knew  it  through 
a  figure  of  speech,  now  we  know  it  as  a  concrete 
fact. 

Carlyle  turned  his  back  upon  Huxley  on  the 
streets  of  London  because  Huxley  had  taught  that 
mankind  had  an  ape-like  ancestor.  Why  is  such  a 
thought  uncongenial  and  repelling?  No  doubt  it 
is  so.  There  is  no  poetry  or  romance  in  it  as  there 
is  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  myth.  If  we  could  look  up 
to  our  remote  progenitors  instead  of  down,  if  we 
could  see  them  clothed  in  light  and  wisdom  instead 
of  clothed  in  hair  and  bestiality,  how  much  more  en- 
ticing and  comforting  the  prospect  would  be!  But 
we  simply  cannot;  we  must  see  them  adown  a  long 
darkening  and  forbidding  prospect,  clothed  in  low 
animal  forms  and  leading  low  animal  lives  —  a 
prospect  that  grows  more  and  more  dim  till  it  is 
lost  in  the  abyss  of  geologic  time. 

Carlyle  would  have  none  of  it!  The  Garden  of 
Eden  story  had  more  beauty  and  dignity.  That 
this  "  backward  glance  o'er  traveled  roads"  repels 
us,  is  no  concern  of  science.  It  repels  us  because  we 
regard  it  from  a  higher  and  fairer  estate.  Go  back 
there  and  look  up:  let  the  monkey  see  himself  as 
man  (if  he  were  capable  of  it),  and  what  would  his 
emotions  be?  The  prehistoric  man,  living  in  caves 
and  clothed  in  skins,  if  we  go  no  further  back,  is  not 
57 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

a  cheering  person  to  contemplate.  And  his  hairy, 
low-browed  forebears  in  Tertiary  times  —  can  we 
see  ourselves  in  them?  It  makes  a  vast  difference 
whether  we  see  the  past  as  poetry,  or  see  it  as  sci- 
ence. In  the  Bible,  and  in  Whitman,  we  see  it  as 
poetry,  in  Darwin  we  see  it  as  science. 

"Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind  me." 
Here  Whitman,  through  his  own  creative  imagina- 
tion, anticipates  Darwin.  Carlyle  probably  would 
have  been  moved  by  such  a  picture  of  his  origin  as 
Whitman  gives.  It  would  have  touched  his  fervid 
ego.  When  Haeckel  or  Darwin  gives  us  an  account 
of  man's  origin,  it  is  not  of  my  origin,  or  your  origin; 
the  personal  element  is  left  out,  the  past  is  not 
linked  with  the  present  by  a  flash:  in  other  words, 
we  see  it  in  the  light  of  science,  and  not  in  the  light 
of  the  poetic  imagination.  And  the  light  of  science 
in  such  matters  is  the  light  of  the  broad,  all-reveal- 
ing noonday.  It  is  therefore  in  the  nature  of  things 
that  the  scientific  view  of  life  in  some  of  its  aspects 
should  repel  us,  when  it  comes  too  near  us,  when  it 
touches  us  personally,  especially  when  it  comes  be- 
tween us  and  our  religious  beliefs  and  aspirations. 

in 

We  are  not  to  forget  that  physical  science  is  of 

necessity  occupied  with  the  physical  side  of  things. 

And  what  is  there  in  nature  or  in  life  that  has  not 

its  physical  side?   Exclusive  occupation  with  this 

58 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

side  does  not  make  the  poet  or  the  prophet  or  the 
artist  or  the  philosopher;  it  makes  the  man  of  sci- 
ence. Such  occupation,  no  doubt,  tends  to  deaden 
our  interest  in  the  finer  and  higher  spiritual  and  in- 
tellectual values.  The  physical  side  of  things  is  not 
often  the  joyous  and  inspiring  side.  The  physical 
side  of  life,  the  physical  side  of  birth,  of  death,  of 
sex  love,  the  physical  side  of  consciousness  and  of 
our  mental  processes,  the  physical  or  biological  side 
of  our  animal  origin,  and  so  on,  are  not  matters  upon 
which  we  fondly  or  inspiringly  dwell.  The  heart, 
which  symbolizes  so  much  to  us,  is  only  a  muscle  — 
a  motor-muscle,  as  we  may  say  —  that  acts  under 
the  influence  of  some  physical  stimulus  like  any 
other  motor;  the  brain,  which  is  the  seat  of  thought 
and  consciousness,  is  a  mass  of  gray  and  white  mat- 
ter incased  in  the  skull.  Every  emotion  or  aspira- 
tion, the  highest  as  well  as  the  lowest,  has  its  physi- 
cal or  physiological  equivalent  in  our  own  bodies. 

In  the  light  of  physical  science  our  bodies  are 
mere  machines,  and  every  emotion  of  our  souls  is 
accounted  for  by  molecular  changes  in  the  brain- 
substance.  Life  itself  is  explained  in  terms  of  chem- 
ico-mechanical  principles.  Physical  science  spoke  in 
Huxley,  and  doubtless  spoke  accurately,  when  he 
said,  "The  soul  stands  related  to  the  body  as  the 
bell  of  a  clock  to  its  works,  and  consciousness  an- 
swers to  the  sound  the  bell  gives  out  when  struck." 
It  is  not  a  very  comforting  or  inspiring  comparison, 
59 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

but  it  is  what  physical  science  sees  in  the  fact.  And 
it  is  this  side  of  life  alone  that  science  can  deal  with. 
Of  the  major  part  of  our  lives  —  of  all  our  subjec- 
tive experiences,  our  religious  and  aesthetic  emo- 
tions, in  fact  the  whole  world  of  the  ideal  and  the 
supersensuous  —  nothing  can  be  known  or  ex- 
plained in  terms  of  exact  science  or  mathematics. 

To  our  higher  sensibilities  science  is  brutal,  un- 
human,  unimaginative.  It  reveals  to  us  an  imper- 
sonal, mechanical  world,  where  our  hopes,  our  fears, 
our  affections,  in  short  our  anthropomorphism, 
had  created  a  personal  world.  Science  has  no  fer- 
vor, no  color,  no  dreams,  no  illusions,  no  weakness, 
no  affections,  no  antagonisms,  no  temperament;  it 
is  not  puffed  up,  thinketh  no  evil,  and  goes  its  way 
though  all  our  gods  totter  and  fall  as  it  passes. 

Science  gives  cold  and  colorless  names  to  things. 
We  are  emotional  as  well  as  intellectual  beings, 
but  science  appeals,  in  the  first  instance,  to  our  in- 
tellects and  not  to  our  emotions.  Where  our  reli- 
gious emotions  see  the  hand  of  God,  science  sees 
the  sequence  of  efficient  causes;  where  we  fear  and 
tremble,  science  is  curious  and  inquiring. 

As  emotional  and  spiritual  beings  we  cannot  live 
by  science  alone.  We  can  build  our  houses,  run  our 
farms,  sail  our  ships,  by  the  facts  and  methods  of 
science,  but  as  social,  moral,  religious,  aesthetic 
beings,  we  require  what  science  cannot  give  us. 
Our  inner  subjective  lives  are  beyond  its  sphere. 
60 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

Without  soul  and  sentiment  we  cannot  have  litera- 
ture, art,  music,  religion,  and  all  that  gives  the  charm 
and  meaning  to  life;  and  without  reason  and  the 
scientific  habit  of  mind  we  cannot  have  exact  knowl- 
edge and  the  mastery  over  the  physical  forces  upon 
which  our  civilization  is  based.  We  must  transcend 
physical  science  to  reach  the  spiritual  and  grasp  the 
final  mystery  of  life.  To  science  there  is  no  mys- 
tery, there  is  only  the  inexplicable;  there  is  no 
spiritual,  there  are  laws  and  processes;  there  is 
no  inner,  there  is  only  the  outer,  world.  To  science 
Goethe's  exclamation,  "There  is  a  universe  within 
thee  as  well,"  or  as  Jesus  put  it  before  him,  "The 
kingdom  of  heaven  is  within  you,"  has  no  meaning, 
because  it  cannot  weigh  and  measure  and  systema- 
tize this  inner  universe.  Hence,  I  say,  if  we  would 
know  the  world  as  it  stands  related  to  our  souls,  — 
to  our  emotional  and  aesthetic  natures,  —  we  must 
look  to  literature  and  art;  if  we  would  know  it  as  it 
stands  related  to  our  religious  instincts  and  aspira- 
tions, we  must  look  to  the  great  teachers  and  proph- 
ets, poets  and  mystics ;  but  if  we  would  know  it  as  it 
is  in  and  of  itself,  and  as  it  stands  related  to  our 
physical  life  and  well-being,  and  to  our  reason,  we 
must  look  to  science. 

Science  and  poetry  go  hand  in  hand  in  this  re- 
spect at  least  —  they  transform  and  illuminate  the 
common,  the  near  at  hand.  They  show  us  the  di- 
vine underfoot.  One  brings  to  pass  what  the  other 
61 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

dreams.  One  brings  home  to  our  understanding 
what  the  other  brings  home  to  our  emotions  and 
aesthetic  perceptions.  The  poets  have  always  known 
there  was  nothing  mean  or  commonplace;  science 
shows  this  to  be  a  fact.  The  poets  and  prophets  have 
always  known  that  the  earth  was  our  mother  and 
the  sun  our  father;  science  shows  us  how  and  why 
this  is  so.  The  poets  know  that  beauty  and  mystery 
lurk  everywhere,  and  they  bring  the  fact  home  to 
our  emotions,  while  science  brings  it  home  to  our 
understanding.  When  Whitman  says,  "I  am  stuc- 
coed with  birds  and  quadrupeds  all  over,"  he  makes 
a  poetic  or  imaginative  statement  of  Darwinism. 
We  think  science  kills  poetry,  and  it  does  when  it 
kills  the  emotion  which  the  poet  awakens,  but  in 
many  cases  science  awakens  an  emotion  of  its  own. 
In  astronomy,  in  geology,  and  often  in  chemistry, 
it  awakens  the  emotion  of  the  sublime.  Poetry  ap- 
peals to  man,  the  emotional  being;  science  appeals 
to  him,  the  reasonable  being.  Science  kills  poetry 
when  it  moves  the  reason  alone.  The  botanist  with 
his  pressed  flower,  and  the  collector  with  his  skins, 
or  his  eggs  and  nests,  are  not  objects  the  poet  likes 
to  contemplate.  There  are  the  aesthetic  values  of 
things  and  the  scientific  values.  The  interest  of  the 
poet  is  in  the  beauty  of  the  flower,  its  human  signifi- 
cance, and  the  like;  that  of  the  man  of  science  in  its 
structure  and  relations,  etc. 
There  is  one  emotion  of  knowledge  and  one  emo- 
62 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

tion  of  ignorance;  that  of  knowledge  is  often  the 
emotion  of  joy  and  faith,  that  of  ignorance  is  often 
the  emotion  of  fear  and  superstition.  It  would  be 
absurd  to  say  that  men  of  science  experienced  no 
emotion;  only  it  is  not  the  emotion  of  sentiment,  it 
is  not  usually  the  emotion  of  awe  or  reverence.  It 
is  the  joy  of  discovery,  the  intellectual  delight  in 
the  solution  of  new  problems.  Evidently  the  great 
biologist  like  Darwin  is  thrilled  by  the  discovery 
of  a  biological  law  as  is  the  poet  by  his  happy  in- 
spirations. Think  you  Darwin's  conception  of 
natural  selection  and  the  descent  of  man  required 
no  imagination?  Darwin's  mind  had  not  atrophied; 
his  desire  to  know  had  outgrown  his  desire  to  feel. 
There  is  the  enjoyment  of  knowledge  and  there 
is  the  enjoyment  of  beauty. 

Science  rarely  antagonizes  poetry;  it  takes  the 
other  road.  The  world  has  got  to  a  point,  no  doubt, 
where  it  sets  a  greater  store  by  knowing  than  by 
feeling,  by  knowledge  than  by  sentiment;  hence 
poetry  is  in  the  decline.  The  pleasures  of  the  under- 
standing are  more  to  us  than  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination. 

Science  has  its  mysteries,  but  they  do  not  awaken 
our  emotions;  it  has  its  revelation,  but  it  does  not 
touch  our  religious  sentiments;  it  has  its  beauty, 
but  it  is  not  the  beauty  that  so  moves  us  in  wild, 
free  nature;  rather  is  it  the  beauty  of  the  con- 
structed, the  artificial,  or  the  beauty  of  machinery. 
63 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

Let  us  give  physical  science  its  due.  We  owe  to 
it  all  the  exact  knowledge  we  have  of  the  physical 
universe  in  which  we  are  placed  and  our  physical 
relations  to  it.  All  we  know  of  the  heavens  above  us, 
with  their  orbs  and  the  cosmic  processes  going  on 
there;  all  we  know  of  the  earth  beneath  our  feet, 
its  structure,  its  composition,  its  physical  history, 
science  has  told  us.  All  we  know  of  the  mechanism 
of  our  own  bodies,  their  laws  and  functions,  the 
physical  relation  of  our  minds  to  them,  science  has 
told  us.  All  we  know  of  our  own  origin,  our  animal 
descent,  science  has  revealed.  The  whole  material 
fabric  of  our  civilization  we  owe  to  science.  Our  re- 
lation to  the  physical  side  of  things  concerns  us  in- 
timately;  it  is  for  our  behoof  to  understand  it.  Prac- 
tical or  daily  experience  settles  much  of  it  for  us,  or 
up  to  a  certain  remove;  beyond  this,  physical  sci- 
ence settles  it  for  us  —  the  sources  and  nature  of 
disease,  the  remedial  forces  of  nature,  the  chemical 
compounds,  the  laws  of  hygiene  and  sanitation,  the 
value  of  foods,  and  a  thousand  other  things  beyond 
the  reach  of  our  unaided  experience,  are  in  the  keep- 
ing of  science.  We  have  the  gift  of  life,  and  life  de- 
mands that  we  understand  things  in  their  relation 
to  our  physical  well-being. 

Science  has  made  or  is  making  the  world  over  for 

us.  It  has  builded  us  a  new  house,  —  builded  it  over 

our  heads  while  we  were  yet  living  in  the  old,  and 

the  confusion  and  disruption  and  the  wiping-out  of 

64 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

the  old  features  and  the  old  associations  have  been, 
and  still  are,  a  sore  trial,  —  a  much  finer,  more  spa- 
cious and  commodious  house,  with  endless  improve- 
ments and  conveniences,  but  new,  new,  all  bright 
and  hard  and  unfamiliar,  with  the  spirit  of  newness ; 
not  yet  home,  not  yet  a  part  of  our  lives,  not  yet 
sacred  to  memory  and  affection. 

The  question  now  is :  Can  we  live  as  worthy  and 
contented  lives  there  as  our  fathers  and  grand- 
fathers did  in  their  ruder,  humbler  dwelling-place? 
What  we  owe  to  science  on  our  moral  and  aesthetic 
side  it  would  not  be  so  easy  to  say,  but  we  owe  it 
much.  It  is  only  when  we  arm  our  faculties  with 
the  ideas  and  the  weapons  of  science  that  we  ap- 
preciate the  grandeur  of  the  voyage  we  are  mak- 
ing on  this  planet.  It  is  only  through  science  that 
we  know  we  are  on  a  planet,  and  are  heavenly  voy- 
agers at  all.  When  we  get  beyond  the  sphere  of  our 
unaided  perceptions  and  experience,  as  we  so  quickly 
do  in  dealing  with  the  earth  and  the  heavenly  bod- 
ies, science  alone  can  guide  us.  Our  minds  are  lost 
in  the  vast  profound  till  science  has  blazed  a  way 
for  us.  The  feeling  of  being  lost  or  baffled  may  give 
rise  to  other  feelings  of  a  more  reverent  and  pious 
character,  as  was  the  case  with  the  early  star- 
gazers,  but  we  can  no  longer  see  the  heavens  with 
the  old  eyes,  if  we  would.  Science  enables  us  to 
understand  our  own  ignorance  and  limitations,  and 
so  puts  us  at  our  ease  amid  the  splendors  and  mys- 
65 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

teries  of  creation.  We  fear  and  tremble  less,  but  we 
marvel  and  enjoy  more.  God,  as  our  fathers  con- 
ceived him,  recedes,  but  law  and  order  come  to  the 
front.  The  personal  emotion  fades,  but  the  cosmic 
emotion  brightens.  We  escape  from  the  bondage  of 
our  old  anthropomorphic  views  of  creation,  into 
the  larger  freedom  of  scientific  faith. 

IV 

Our  civilization  is  so  largely  the  result  of  physical 
science  that  we  almost  unconsciously  impute  all  its 
ugly  features  to  science. 

But  its  ugly  features  can  only  indirectly  be 
charged  to  science.  They  are  primarily  chargeable  to 
the  greed,  the  selfishness,  the  cupidity,  the  worldly- 
mindedness  which  has  found  in  science  the  tools  to 
further  its  ends.  We  can  use  our  scientific  knowl- 
edge to  improve  and  beautify  the  earth,  or  we  can 
use  it  to  deface  and  exhaust  it.  We  can  use  it  to 
poison  the  air,  corrupt  the  waters,  blacken  the  face 
of  the  country,  and  harass  our  souls  with  loud  and 
discordant  noises,  or  we  can  use  it  to  mitigate  or 
abolish  all  these  things.  Mechanical  science  could 
draw  the  fangs  of  most  of  the  engineering  monsters 
that  are  devouring  our  souls.  The  howling  locomo- 
tives that  traverse  the  land,  pouring  out  their  huge 
black  volumes  of  fetid  carbon,  and  splitting  our 
ears  with  their  discordant  noises,  only  need  a  little 
more  science  to  purify  their  foul  breaths  and  soften 
66 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

their  agonizing  voices.  A  great  manufacturing 
town  is  hideous,  and  life  in  it  is  usually  hideous, 
but  more  science,  more  mechanical  skill,  more  soul 
in  capital,  and  less  brutality  in  labor  would  change 
all  these  things . 

Science  puts  great  weapons  in  men's  hands  for 
good  or  for  evil,  for  war  or  for  peace,  for  beauty  or 
for  ugliness,  for  life  or  for  death,  and  how  these  weap- 
ons are  used  depends  upon  the  motives  that  actuate 
us.  Science  now  promises  to  make  war  so  deadly 
that  it  will  practically  abolish  it.  While  we  preach 
the  gospel  of  peace  our  preparations  for  war  are 
so  exhaustive  and  scientific  that  the  military  spirit 
will  die  of  an  over-dose  of  its  own  medicine,  and 
peace  will  fall  of  itself  like  a  ripe  fruit  into  our  hands. 
A  riotous,  wasteful,  and  destructive  spirit  has  been 
turned  loose  upon  this  continent,  and  it  has  used 
the  weapons  which  physical  science  has  placed  in  its 
hands  in  a  brutal,  devil-may-care  sort  of  way,  with 
the  result  that  a  nature  fertile  and  bountiful,  but 
never  kind  and  sympathetic,  has  been  outraged  and 
disfigured  and  impoverished,  rather  than  mellowed 
and  subdued  and  humanized. 

The  beauty  and  joy  of  life  in  the  Old  World  is  a 
reflection  from  the  past  or  pre-scientific  age,  to  a 
degree  of  which  we  have  little  conception.  In  spite 
of  our  wealth  of  practical  knowledge,  and  our  un- 
paralleled advantages  (perhaps  by  very  reason 
thereof,  since  humility  of  spirit  is  a  flower  that  does 
67 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

not  flourish  amid  such  rank  growths),  life  in  this 
country  is  undoubtedly  the  ugliest  and  most  mate- 
rialistic that  any  country  or  age  ever  saw.  Our 
civilization  is  the  noisiest  and  most  disquieting,  and 
the  pressure  of  the  business  and  industrial  spirit  the 
most  maddening  and  killing,  that  the  race  has  yet 
experienced. 

Yet  for  all  these  things  science  is  only  indirectly 
responsible.  In  the  same  sense  is  the  sun  responsible 
for  the  rains  and  storms  that  at  times  destroy  us. 
The  spirit  of  greed  and  violence,  robust  because  it 
has  been  well-housed  and  fed,  and  triply  dangerous 
because  it  is  well-armed  and  drilled,  is  abroad  in 
the  land.  Science  gave  us  dynamite,  but  whence 
the  spirit  that  uses  it  to  wreak  private  revenue,  or 
to  blow  up  railroad  bridges  and  newspaper  and 
manufacturing  plants?  Let  us  be  just  to  science. 
Had  it  never  been,  the  complexion  of  our  lives  and 
the  face  of  the  earth  itself  would  have  been  vastly 
different.  Had  man  never  attained  to  the  power  of 
reason,  he  would  still  have  been  a  brute  with  the 
other  beasts.  It  takes  power  to  use  power.  Knowl- 
edge without  wisdom  is  a  dangerous  thing.  Science 
without  sense  may  bring  us  to  grief.  We  cannot 
vault  into  the  saddle  of  the  elemental  forces  and 
ride  them  and  escape  the  danger  of  being  ridden  by 
them.  We  cannot  have  a  civilization  propelled  by 
machinery  without  the  iron  of  it  in  some  form  en- 
tering our  souls. 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

With  our  vast  stores  of  scientific  knowledge  come 
the  same  problems  that  come  with  the  accumula- 
tion of  worldly  wealth  —  how  to  acquire  the  one 
and  not  lose  sight  of  the  higher  spiritual  values,  or 
become  intellectually  hard  and  proud,  and  how  to 
obtain  the  other  and  not  mortgage  our  souls  to  the 
devil;  in  short,  in  both  cases,  how  to  gain  the  whole 
world  and  not  lose  our  own  souls.  It  has  been  done, 
and  can  be  done.  Although  Darwin  confessed  to- 
ward the  end  of  his  life  that  he  had  lost  his  interest 
in  art,  in  literature,  and  in  music,  of  which  he  was 
once  so  fond,  he  never  lost  his  intellectual  humility 
or  gentleness  and  sweetness  of  soul,  or  grew  weary  in 
the  pursuit  of  truth  for  its  own  sake.  He  had  sought 
to  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  creative  energy  in  ani- 
mal life  with  such  singleness  of  purpose  and  such 
devotion  to  the  ideal  that  the  lesson  of  his  life  tells 
for  the  attitude  of  mind  called  religious  as  well  as 
for  the  attitude  called  scientific.  His  yearning, 
patient  eyes  came  as  near  seeing  the  veil  withdrawn 
from  the  mystery  of  the  world  of  animal  life  as  has 
ever  been  given  to  any  man  to  see. 

Huxley,  the  valiant  knight  in  the  evolutionary 
warfare,  was  not  a  whit  behind  him  in  the  disin- 
terested pursuit  of  scientific  truth,  while  he  led  him 
in  his  interest  in  truths  of  a  more  purely  subjective 
and  intellectual  character.  Huxley  was  often  ac- 
cused of  materialism,  but  he  indignantly  resented 
the  charge.  He  was  a  scientific  idealist,  and  he 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

shone  like  a  holy  crusader  in  following  the  Darwin- 
ian banner  into  the  territory  of  the  unbelievers. 

v 

One  may  question,  after  all,  whether  this  oppres- 
sion which  our  sensitive  souls  feel  in  the  presence 
of  the  results  of  modern  science  be  the  fault  of  sci- 
ence or  of  our  own  lack  of  a  certain  mental  robust- 
ness, or  spiritual  joy  and  vigor,  that  enables  one  to 
transmute  and  spiritualize  science.  Let  us  take 
courage  from  the  examples  of  some  of  the  great 
modern  poets.  Tennyson  drew  material,  if  not  in- 
spiration, from  the  two  great  physical  sciences  geol- 
ogy and  astronomy,  especially  in  his  noblest  long 
poem,  "In  Memoriam."  Clearly  they  did  not  sug- 
gest to  him  a  blank  wall  of  material  things.  Later  in 
his  life  he  seems  to  have  feared  them  as  rivals:  "Ter- 
rible Muses"  he  calls  them,  who  might  eclipse  the 
crowned  ones  themselves,  the  great  poets. 

Our  own  Emerson  was  evidently  stimulated  by 
the  result  of  physical  science,  and  often  availed  him- 
self, in  his  later  poems  and  essays,  of  its  material 
by  way  of  confirming  or  illustrating  the  moral  law 
upon  which  he  was  wont  to  string  everything  in 
reach.  Emerson,  in  his  eagerness  for  illustrative 
material  in  writing  his  essays,  reminds  one  of  the 
pressure  certain  birds  are  under  when  building 
their  nests,  —  birds  like  the  oriole,  for  instance. 
Hang  pieces  of  colored  yarn  near  the  place  where 
70 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

the  oriole  is  building  its  nest,  and  the  bird  seizes 
upon  them  eagerly  and  weaves  them  into  the  struc- 
ture, not  mindful  at  all  of  the  obvious  incongruity. 
Emerson  in  the  fever  of  composition  often  snatched 
at  facts  of  science  that  he  had  read  in  books  or 
heard  in  lectures,  and  worked  them  into  his  text  in 
the  same  way,  always  reinforcing  his  sentence  with 
them.  The  solvent  power  of  his  thought  seemed 
equal  to  any  fact  of  physical  science. 

Whitman  was,  if  anything,  still  more  complacent 
and  receptive  in  the  presence  of  science.  He  makes 
less  direct  use  of  its  results  than  either  of  the  other 
poets  mentioned,  but  one  feels  that  he  has  put  it 
more  completely  under  his  feet  than  they,  and  used 
it  as  a  vantage-ground  from  which  to  launch  his 
tremendous  "I  say." 

"I  lie  abstracted  and  hear  the  tale  of  things,  and  the 

reason  of  things, 
They  are  so  beautiful  I  nudge  myself  to  listen." 

Addressing  men  of  science  he  says,  — 

"  Gentlemen,  to  you  the  first  honors  always; 
Your  facts  are  useful  and  yet  they  are  not  my  dwelling; 
I  but  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  my  dwelling,"  — 

as  all  of  us  do  who  would  live  in  a  measure  the  life 
of  the  spirit.  To  Whitman  the  blank  wall,  if  there 
was  any  wall,  was  in  his  area  and  not  in  his  dwelling 
itself. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  Henri  Bergson  whose 
recent  volume,  "Creative  Evolution,"  is  destined, 
71 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

I  believe,  to  mark  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  modern 
thought.  The  work  has  its  root  in  modern  physical 
science,  but  it  blooms  and  bears  fruit  in  the  spirit  to 
a  degree  quite  unprecedented. 

When  we  can  descend  upon  the  materialism  of 
the  physical  sciences  with  the  spiritual  fervor  and 
imaginative  power  of  the  men  I  have  named,  the 
blank  wall  of  material  things  will  become  as  trans- 
parent as  glass  itself,  and  the  chill  will  give  place  to 
intellectual  warmth. 

Bergson,  to  whom  I  have  referred,  is  a  new  star 
in  the  intellectual  firmament  of  our  day.  He  is  a 
philosopher  upon  whom  the  spirits  of  both  litera- 
ture and  science  have  descended.  In  his  great  work 
he  touches  the  materialism  of  science  to  finer  issues. 
Probably  no  other  writer  of  our  time  has  possessed 
in  the  same  measure  the  three  gifts,  the  literary,  the 
scientific,  and  the  philosophical.  Bergson  is  a  kind 
of  chastened  and  spiritualized  Herbert  Spencer. 

Spencer  was  a  philosopher  upon  whom  the  spirit 
of  science  alone  had  descended,  and  we  miss  in  his 
work  the  quickening  creative  atmosphere,  and  that 
light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,  that  pervades 
Bergson's.  One  thinks  of  Spencer  as  an  enormous 
intellectual  plant,  turning  out  philosophical  prod- 
ucts that  doubtless  have  their  uses,  but  are  a 
weary  weight  to  the  spirit.  His  work  tends  to  a  me- 
chanical explanation  of  the  universe  and  of  the 
evolutionary  impulse  which  Bergson,  with  his  finer 
72 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

and  more  imaginative  endowment,  helps  us  to  es- 
cape. Bergson's  work  has  its  root  in  physical  sci- 
ence also,  but  you  run  against  no  blank  wall  of  ma- 
terial things  in  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  has  the  charm 
of  the  ideal,  and  is  luminous  with  insight  into  the 
more  subtle  and  spiritual  processes  of  the  universe. 
"Creative  Evolution"  would  have  appealed  to 
Goethe,  and  to  our  own  Emerson  and  Whitman, 
and  to  all  true  idealists  curious  about  the  ways  of 
creative  power.  It  puts  wings  to  the  results  of 
physical  science  as  no  other  work  with  which  I  am 
acquainted  has  done  in  my  time. 

VI 

We  must  face  and  accept  the  new  conditions. 
They  will  seem  less  hard  to  our  children's  children 
than  to  us.  If  the  old  awe  and  reverence  must  go, 
the  old  fear  and  superstition  must  go  with  them. 
The  religious  ages  begat  a  whole  brood  of  imps  and 
furies,  —  superstition,  persecution,  witchcraft,  war, 
—  and  they  must  go,  have  gone,  or  are  going.  The 
new  wonder,  the  new  admiration,  the  new  human- 
ism, with  the  new  scientific  view  of  the  universe, 
chilling  though  it  be,  must  come  in.  We  shall  write 
Jess  poetry,  but  we  ought  to  live  saner  lives;  we 
shall  tremble  and  worship  less,  but  we  shall  be  more 
at  home  in  the  universe.  War  must  go,  the  zymotic 
diseases  must  go,  hidebound  creeds  must  go,  and  a 
wider  charity  and  sympathy  come  in. 
73 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

There  is  nothing  that  fuses  and  unifies  the  nations 
like  scientific  knowledge,  and  the  rational  views  that 
it  inculcates  —  knowledge  founded  upon  the  uni- 
versal nature  which  is  in  all  countries  the  same. 
Science  puts  the  same  tools  in  all  hands,  the  same 
views  in  all  minds;  we  are  no  longer  divided  by 
false  aims,  or  by  religions  founded  upon  half-views 
or  false  views.  The  local  gives  place  to  the  univer- 
sal. We  come  to  see  that  all  people  are  one,  and 
that  the  well-being  of  each  is  the  well-being  of  all, 
and  vice  versa.  Distrust  gives  place  to  confidence; 
jealousy  gives  place  to  fellowship.  Like  knowledge 
begets  like  aims;  the  truths  of  nature  make  the 
whole  world  kin.  The  individual  and  the  picture- 
esque  will  suffer,  local  color  will  fade,  but  the  hu- 
man, the  democratic,  the  average  weal,  will  gain. 

It  must  be  said  that  literature  has  gained  in  many 
respects  in  this  hurrying,  economic  age;  it  has  gained 
in  point  and  precision  what  it  has  lost  in  power.  We 
are  more  impatient  of  the  sham,  the  make-believe, 
the  dilatory,  the  merely  rhetorical  and  oratorical. 
We  are  more  impatient  of  the  obscure,  the  tedious, 
the  impotent,  the  superfluous,  the  far-fetched.  We 
have  a  new  and  a  sharpened  sense  for  the  real,  the 
vital,  the  logical.  The  dilatory  and  meandering 
methods  of  even  such  a  writer  as  Hawthorne  tire  us 
a  little  now,  and  the  make-believe  of  a  Dickens  is 
well-nigh  intolerable.  We  want  a  story  to  move  rap- 
idly, we  want  the  essay  full  of  point  and  suggestion; 
74 


IN  THE  NOON  OF  SCIENCE 

we  find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  read  books 
about  books,  and  all  writing  "about-and-about" 
we  are  impatient  of.  We  want  the  thing  itself;  we 
want  currents  and  counter-currents  —  movement 
and  rapidity  at  all  hazards. 

We  are  used  to  seeing  the  wheels  go  round;  we 
feel  the  tremendous  push  of  our  civilization  all 
about  us;  we  see  the  straight  paths,  despite  ob- 
stacles, that  the  controlled  physical  forces  make 
over  the  earth's  surface;  we  are  masters  of  the  sci- 
ence of  short  cuts  in  all  departments  of  life;  and 
both  literature  and  philosophy  respond  to  these 
conditions.  Pragmatism  has  come  in,  dogmatism 
has  gone  out;  the  formal,  the  perfunctory,  the 
rhetorical,  count  for  less  and  less;  the  direct,  the 
manly,  the  essential,  count  for  more  and  more. 
Science  has  cured  us  of  many  delusions,  and  it  has 
made  us  the  poorer  by  dispelling  certain  illusions, 
but  it  has  surely  made  the  earth  a  much  more  hab- 
itable place  than  it  was  in  the  prescientific  ages. 


IV 

THE  HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OP 
NATURE 

THE  method  of  Nature  seems  to  be  an  all-round- 
the-horizon  one,  without  specific  direction  or 
discrimination.  Or  we  may  say  that,  whereas  man's 
activity  is  in  right  lines  toward  definite  predeter- 
mined ends,  Nature's  activity  is  in  circles;  her  im- 
petus goes  out  in  all  directions,  so  that  she  is  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  reach  her  goal,  because  she  cov- 
ers all  the  ground.  This  method  involves  delay, 
waste,  failures,  —  or  what  would  be  such  to  our- 
selves, —  but  they  are  a  matter  of  indifference  to 
the  Infinite. 

Man  plans  and  builds  and  plants  by  method,  or- 
der, system;  he  has  eyes  to  see  and  hands  to  guide, 
and  wit  to  devise :  Nature  builds  and  plants  blindly, 
haphazardly,  all  around  the  circle;  her  hand- 
maidens are  industrious  but  undirected. 

The  seeds  of  many  plants  are  deftly  concealed  in 
tempting  fruit  which  some  creature  will  eat,  and 
thus  the  hard-coated  seeds  will  get  disseminated. 
How  many  apple-trees  and  red  thorn  trees  the  cow 
plants !  The  seeds  which  her  teeth  do  not  crush  es- 
cape from  her  body  and  are  planted.  It  is  a  chance 
76 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

hit,  but  Nature  takes  it,  and  wins  often  enough  for 
her  purpose.  The  superabundance  of  seed  more  than 
offsets  this  element  of  chance.  The  seeds  which  the 
winds  carry  travel  to  all  points  of  the  compass  and 
fall  blindly  here  and  there;  a  hundred  or  a  thousand 
fall  where  one  finds  its  proper  habitat. 

Nature  is  pervaded  with  an  intelligence  that  dif- 
fers in  kind  from  that  of  man  —  a  blind,  groping  in- 
telligence. Instead  of  taking  short  cuts,  as  man 
does,  and  saving  time  and  waste,  she  beats  all  about 
the  field,  like  a  blind  man  looking  for  a  gate.  She 
succeeds  because  she  persists,  and  moves  in  every 
direction.  Her  impulses  are  like  the  wavelet  that  a 
dropped  pebble  starts  in  the  pool,  which  reaches 
every  point  upon  the  shore.  She  gets  out  of  the  woods 
because  she  travels  to  all  points.  The  winds,  the 
streams,  the  tides,  do  her  errands;  they  search  out 
every  place;  they  "finger  every  shore";  they  cover 
every  square  inch  of  ground.  No  matter  how  nar- 
row the  territory  in  which  any  species  of  plant 
thrives,  if  it  is  winged,  and  trusts  itself  to  the  wind, 
as  most  marsh  plants  do,  it  sooner  or  later  finds  its 
proper  habitat. 

The  winged  seeds  of  the  cat-tail  flag  set  out  in 
fleets  upon  the  air,  cruising  for  ditches  and  swamps; 
they  search  all  round  the  horizon,  and  sooner  or 
later  a  few  of  them  find  what  they  were  looking  for; 
before  you  are  aware  of  it,  the  ditch  that  drains  your 
land  is  choked  with  a  growth  of  cat-tail  flag.  I  say 
77 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

"find,"  when,  in  truth,  they  find  nothing;  they 
simply  fall  by  chance  upon  the  spots  suitable  for 
them,  as  a  thirsty  blind  man  might  stumble  upon  a 
spring. 

The  spores  of  the  black  knot  trust  themselves 
blindly  to  the  wind  which  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
and  yet  had  they  a  thousand  eyes  they  could  not 
more  surely  find  the  plum  or  cherry  trees  or  other 
hosts  they  are  in  need  of.  In  autumn  how  many 
seeds  of  how  many  plants  are  waiting  with  hooks 
and  barbs  ready  to  seize  on  some  passing  creature 
and  get  free  transportation  to  new  lands !  To  cow's 
tail,  to  sheep's  wool,  to  dog's  hair,  to  men's  clothing, 
they  commit  themselves  and  take  their  chances. 
Some  one  has  written  a  book  called  "A  Vagabond 
Journey  around  the  World"  —  circling  the  globe 
without  money  or  friends.  How  many  plants  have 
made  this  same  journey,  catching  or  stealing  a  ride 
here  and  there,  tarrying  in  this  country  and  in  that, 
but  sooner  or  later  pressing  forward ! 

This  haphazard  method  of  Nature  is  well  illus- 
trated by  the  experimental  course  of  an  animal  in 
learning  to  do  a  new  thing.  The  laboratory  experi- 
mentalists tell  us  that  when  a  rat  or  a  cat  learns  to 
open  a  box  to  get  food,  it  does  so  by  an  all-round- 
the-circle  course  of  action.  It  proceeds  as  Nature 
does  in  her  endless  trials.  The  rat  begins  by  running 
round  and  over  the  box  that  holds  the  food,  gnawing 
the  wires,  pushing  its  nose  into  every  mesh  of  the 
78 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

wire  screen,  clawing,  biting,  and  leaving  no  clue  un- 
tried. This  random  trial-and-error  course  finally 
results  in  the  proper  means  of  reaching  the  food 
being  hit  upon.  The  child  learns  in  the  same  hit- 
and-miss  method,  and  we  children  of  larger  growth 
learn  many  things  in  the  same  way.  We  try,  try, 
and  try  again,  always  profiting  by  our  failures. 

I  saw  Nature  at  her  hit-and-miss  method  the 
other  day  when  I  saw  a  young  but  fully  grown  and 
half-tamed  sparrow  hawk  try  to  release  itself  from 
the  string  by  which  it  was  held,  and  which  had  be- 
come much  tangled  about  the  foot.  He  picked  and 
pulled  at  it  blindly  of  course.  If  he  persists  long 
enough,  I  said,  he  will  succeed;  he  will  finally  hit 
the  loop  that  is  the  key  to  the  whole  tangle,  and 
the  string  will  fall  free ;  which  turned  out  to  be  the 
case.  He  made  many  ineffectual  efforts,  but  after 
a  time  his  trial-and-error  process  brought  him  the 
release  he  was  striving  for.  The  intelligence  of  the 
hawk,  if  we  may  call  it  such,  showed  itself  in  re- 
cognizing the  fact  that  its  movements  were  im- 
peded by  the  tangled  string,  and  that  he  might  im- 
prove the  situation.  Of  course  it  had  no  rational 
mental  process  about  the  matter,  but  obeyed  the 
blind  instinctive  impulse  to  free  itself  from  the 
string  that  held  it. 

The  great  continental  ice-sheet  in  late  Tertiary 
times  drove  all  animal  and  plant  life  toward  the 
Equator;  when  the  ice-sheet  retreated,  the  plants 
79 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

and  animals  followed  it  back  into  the  abandoned 
territory;  but  think  what  a  hit-and-miss  method 
the  getting  back  must  have  been,  especially  to  the 
plants  and  the  trees!  The  animal  Me  would  wait 
upon  the  vegetable,  upon  which  it  depends,  and  the 
vegetable  would  wait  upon  the  winds,  or  upon  what- 
ever forces  of  Nature  were  going  their  way.  Slowly, 
in  the  course  of  many  thousand  years,  they  would 
go  back  and  adapt  themselves  to  the  changed  condi- 
tions. The  plants  and  trees  whose  seeds  are  sown  by 
the  winds  would  probably  take  the  lead ;  the  fruit  and 
nut-bearing  trees  which  sustain,  and,  in  turn,  depend 
upon  animal  life  to  scatter  them,  would  bring  up 
the  rear.  The  Pleistocene  man,  a  rude  savage,  no 
doubt,  with  rude  stone  weapons  and  tools,  would  fol- 
low along  as  his  means  of  subsistence  allowed.  The 
whole  return  of  life  to  the  vast  glaciated  region  must 
have  been  a  very  slow,  roundabout,  hit-and-miss 
process,  stretching  over  a  very  long  period  of 
time. 

The  sun  itself  is  a  type  of  Nature's  wholesale, 
spendthrift  method.  It  radiates  its  light  and  heat 
in  every  possible  direction,  and  if  we  regard  its  func- 
tion as  the  source  of  light  and  heat  to  the  worlds  re- 
volving round  it,  what  an  incalculable  waste  goes 
on  forever  and  ever !  The  amount  of  this  life-giving 
solar  radiance  that  falls  on  the  planets  is  a  fraction 
so  small  that  it  is  like  a  grain  of  sand  compared  to 
the  seashore.  Yet  probably,  in  our  sense  of  the  word, 
80 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

there  is  no  waste  of  anything  in  the  universe.  How 
can  the  Infinite  waste  or  be  wasted? 

If  we  believe  our  astronomy,  the  evolution  of  suns 
and  systems  is  often  the  result  of  the  same  fortui- 
tous method  of  Nature.  Two  dark  bodies,  —  burnt- 
out  suns,  —  shooting  at  random  through  the  depth 
of  infinite  space,  collide,  and  the  kinetic  energy  of 
the  collision  passes  into  the  potential  energy  of  heat, 
and  the  two  bodies,  or  parts  of  them,  become  incan- 
descent nebular  matter  which,  in  the  course  of  in- 
calculable time,  condenses  again  into  suns  with 
their  antecedent  worlds.  Our  own  planetary  system 
may  have  been  the  result  of  such  a  chance  colli- 
sion of  dead  suns  in  the  cosmic  dramas  of  sidereal 
space. 

This  random  method  of  Nature  is  again  well  illus- 
trated in  the  case  of  the  drones  and  the  queen  bee  in 
the  hive.  The  drones  are  there  to  fertilize  the  queen, 
and  the  queen  is  there  to  perpetuate  the  swarm,  as 
she  is  the  one  mother  bee  in  the  hive.  If  she  is  not 
fertilized,  her  eggs  produce  drones  and  nothing  else. 
Here  again  we  see  what  a  spendthrift  Nature  is  in 
regard  to  the  male  principle.  The  case  of  the  bees 
is  analogous  to  the  fertilization  of  the  flowers  by 
the  agency  of  the  wind  —  the  same  hit-and-miss 
procedure.  A  thousand  minute  grains  of  pollen  are 
thrown  to  the  winds,  when  one  will  do  the  work  if 
it  hits  the  mark.  But  the  chances  are  that  it  will  not 
hit  the  mark;  so  a  thousand  or  more  are  fired  blindly 
81 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

into  space,  and  the  chances  are  thus  a  thousand 
times  greater  that  the  mark  will  be  struck.  One 
drone,  and  one  chance  meeting  with  the  queen  in  the 
air,  and  the  queen  is  fertilized ;  her  eggs  will  now  all 
produce  worker  or  neuter  bees.  But  this  meeting  of 
the  queen  in  the  air  by  the  drone  or  male  bee  is  quite 
a  fortuitous  matter:  the  day  and  hour  of  her  flight  is 
fortuitous,  her  course  on  the  wing  is  fortuitous,  and 
the  course  of  the  drone  through  the  air  is  equally 
fortuitous. 

The  queen  makes  but  one  flight,  and  the  fields  of 
summer  air  in  which  she  wanders  are  very  wide,  and 
the  "spirit  of  the  hive"  has  not  advised  any  drone 
at  what  particular  moment  she  will  be  at  any  par- 
ticular point.  The  spirit  of  the  hive  has  a  simpler  if 
a  more  wasteful  method:  it  has  developed  many 
drones,  several  score  of  them,  I  should  think,  and 
they  go  forth  every  fair  day  and  search  the  air  in  all 
directions  during  the  period  when  the  nuptial  flight 
of  the  queen  is  likely  to  take  place.  One  male  some 
day,  some  moment,  is  doomed  to  meet  her  and  yield 
his  life  for  the  swarm,  as  the  worker  bee  yields  her 
life  when  she  stings  an  enemy  in  defense  of  the  col- 
ony. Soon  after  the  fertilization  of  the  queen  has 
taken  place,  the  drones  are  all  killed  or  expelled  from 
the  hive.  It  is  a  cruel  fate  from  our  point  of  view, 
and  a  wasteful  method,  but  cruelty  and  waste  in  this 
sense  do  not  trouble  the  cosmic  or  universal  pro- 
cesses. The  swarm  thrives,  the  race  of  honey-bees 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

goes  on,  and  that,  apparently,  is  all  that  the  gods  of 
evolution  are  solicitous  about. 

The  spirit  of  the  hive  has  no  further  use  for  the 
drones,  and  the  parsimony  of  Nature,  which  asserts 
itself,  not  for  the  individual  but  for  the  race,  asserts 
itself  now.    It  is  hard  to  see  how  natural  selection, 
which  is  looking  after  the  fittest  to  survive,  would 
bring  about  this  result.    This  cumbersome,  round- 
about method  of  fertilizing  the  queen  should  have 
many  disadvantages  to  the  colony :  the  queen  might 
be  lost  in  her  flight,  caught  by  some  flycatcher,  or 
overwhelmed  by  a  sudden  storm;  it  is  certain  that 
many  drones  are  caught  by  kingbirds  in  the  air. 
Then  this  gang  of  drones  has  to  be  harbored  and  fed 
by  the  colony,  which  is  no  small  item.    The  fittest 
and  most  economical  process  would  be  the  fertiliza- 
tion of  the  queen  in  the  hive,  thus  doing  away  with 
the  superfluity  of  drones,  which  are  certainly  a  tax 
upon  the  swarm.  It  is  an  unfit  method  which  has  as 
yet  survived.    The  only  possible  advantage  of  it  is 
the  advantage  of  cross-fertilization  which  may  oc- 
cur where  there  are  other  colonies  of  bees  in  the 
neighborhood.  Among  our  bumblebees  this  cross- 
fertilization  does  not  take  place,  as   I   have   fre- 
quently had  occasion  to  observe. 

The  hit-and-miss  method  of  Nature  only  means 

that  Nature  experiments  like  an  inventor,  tries  and 

tries  again,  takes  a  long  time,  but  knows  when  she 

hits  the  mark.  Mechanical  forces  only  seek  an  equi- 

83 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

librium.  The  drones  seek  the  queen,  and  the  queen 
seeks  the  drones,  from  an  inward  inherited  impulse. 
The  tendrils  of  the  vine  reach  out  in  all  directions  for 
support  because  there  is  the  push  of  life  behind 
them  —  something  craving  support. 

It  is  this  push  of  life  that  distinguishes  the  organic 
from  the  inorganic  —  this  power  of  growth.  Life  is 
like  a  fountain  in  this  respect.  To  suppress  a  foun- 
tain, you  must  needs  change  the  soil  and  rocks 
from  which  it  draws  its  water.  Block  its  course,  and 
it  forms  a  new  one;  suppressed  here,  it  breaks  out 
there;  there  is  a  never-ceasing  push  and  accumula- 
tion of  the  waters.  It  is  as  hard  to  suppress  certain 
trees  and  plants  as  to  extinguish  a  fountain;  as  long 
as  the  roots  remain,  the  new  tree,  the  new  plant,  is 
pushed  out  again.  The  organic  life  of  the  globe, 
considered  as  a  whole,  pushes  out  and  on  in  the  same 
way. 

Nature  takes  her  chances,  but  her  system  of 
things  is  so  dovetailed  together  and  is  so  flexible, 
and  in  the  course  of  ages  has  worked  itself  out  so 
completely,  that  sooner  or  later  she  makes  her  points. 
If  I  depended  upon  the  winds  or  the  floods  or  the 
animals  to  sow  my  seed  or  plant  my  trees,  how  ex- 
tremely precarious  would  be  my  harvest  of  grain  and 
of  nuts  and  fruit.  But  this  spring  I  saw  a  red  squir- 
rel carrying  the  butternuts  out  of  the  walls  of  my 
house  where  he  had  stored  them  last  fall,  and  hiding 
them  here  and  there  under  the  leaves  and  dry  grass 
84 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

in  the  orchard,  hiding  them,  I  fancy,  in  obedience 
to  some  provident  instinct,  but  really  planting  them 
on  Nature's  behalf,  which,  of  course,  means  ulti- 
mately on  his  own  behalf. 

The  heavy  nuts  —  walnuts,  butternuts,  chestnuts, 
hickory-nuts  —  go  unsown  and  rot  or  germinate  in 
vain  under  the  parent  tree,  unless  some  hungry  an- 
imal carries  them  away  as  food.  In  the  bare  chance 
that  this  will  happen,  and  that  the  nuts  so  carried 
will  not  all  be  eaten,  but  left  where  they  can  ger- 
minate, Nature  finds  her  account.  Crows  and  jays 
carry  away  acorns  and  chestnuts,  but  drop  or  hide  a 
fair  percentage  of  them,  so  that  the  trees  get  widely 
scattered. 

This  is  a  hit-and-miss  method,  but  the  hits  are 
often  enough  to  serve  Nature's  purpose;  the  game 
is  played  on  such  an  extensive  scale  that  forests  of 
oak  and  chestnut  and  beech  are  the  result. 

The  one  thing  in  this  universe  that  Nature  has  not 
been  economical  about  is  seed,  and  the  fertilizing 
principle.  See  the  clouds  of  pollen  she  throws  to  the 
wind  from  the  pine-trees  and  from  the  grass  in  the 
meadows ;  if  one  grain  in  a  hundred  hits  the  mark  her 
end  is  reached.  It  is  by  this  heaping  and  overflowing 
measure  that  the  element  of  chance  is  neutralized. 

In  the  human  world,  over  and  above  the  play  of 
will,  purpose,  reason,  choice,  there  is  the  rule  of  im- 
personal Nature.  The  evolution  of  the  race,  of  the 
nation,  is  not  in  obedience  to  human  will  or  fore- 
85 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

thought,  and  the  things  that  delay  it,  or  accelerate 
it,  are  as  impersonal  as  the  tides  and  the  seasons. 

The  waste,  the  delays,  the  failures  in  human  his- 
tory, have  been  the  same  as  in  natural  history. 
Wars,  famines,  pestilence,  storms,  and  convulsions 
of  nature  have  changed  and  delayed  the  course 
of  national  and  racial  development.  In  a  certain 
limited  sense,  man  is  the  architect  of  his  own  for- 
tunes; in  a  larger  sense,  his  communities  and  so- 
cieties are  under  the  law  of  organic  evolution  and 
subject  to  the  failures  and  mishaps  of  natural  bodies. 
The  business  of  Nature  is  carried  on  without  any 
reference  to  our  ideas  of  prudence,  or  economic 
principles,  or  parsimony  of  effort,  or  our  measure  of 
success.  Nature  succeeds  when  one  species  destroys 
another,  or  when  an  earthquake  blots  out  races  of 
men.  Nature  does  not  balance  her  books  in  a  day  or 
in  ten  thousand  days,  but  some  sort  of  balance  is 
kept  in  the  course  of  the  ages,  else  life  would  not  be 
here.  Disruption  and  decay  finally  bring  about  their 
opposites.  Conflicting  forces  get  adjusted  and  peace 
reigns.  If  all  forces  found  the  equilibrium  to  which 
they  tend,  we  should  have  a  dead  world  —  a  dead 
level  of  lifeless  forces.  But  the  play  of  forces  is  so 
complex,  the  factors  that  enter  into  our  weather  sys- 
tem even,  are  so  many  and  so  subtle  and  far-reach- 
ing, that  we  experience  but  little  monotony.  There 
is  a  perpetual  seesaw  everywhere,  and  this  means 
life  and  motion. 

86 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

I  wonder  if  the  life  of  the  world,  as  we  behold  it, 
has  reached  this  stage  of  development,  not  by  direc- 
tion, but  by  a  conflict  of  forces?  Was  it  determined 
by  intrinsic  necessity,  or  is  it  simply  the  result  of 
extrinsic  conditions  and  forces,  like  the  course  of 
the  stream  to  the  river  and  of  the  river  to  the 
sea? 

The  streams  flow  in  all  directions,  yet  sooner  or 
later  they  reach  the  great  reservoirs  of  lakes  or  seas. 
The  rivulet  has  no  eyes,  no  legs,  no  chart,  no  wit,  but 
it  will  surely  reach  its  goal  —  not  by  its  own  efforts 
or  will,  but  by  the  law  of  mechanical  forces  acting 
upon  its  own  fluidity  or  aquosity.  Without  gravita- 
tion working  with  variations  of  the  earth's  surface, 
it  would  never  get  there. 

It  seems  to  me  that  evolution,  too,  must  work  all 
around  the  circle;  and  had  there  not  been  some  uni- 
versal, underlying  force  analogous  to  gravity,  and 
some  modifying  conditions  in  the  environment,  it 
would  never  have  got  anywhere. 

Gravity  gives  to  water  the  impulse  to  flow,  or  to 
seek  a  lower  level;  the  conditions  exterior  to  it  de- 
termine where  it  shall  flow. 

It  is  the  nature  of  life  to  flow,  to  seek  new  direc- 
tions, to  reach  higher  forms;  the  environment,  the 
action,  the  reaction,  and  the  interaction  do  the 
rest. 

No  extrinsic  conditions  could  have  made  a  man 
out  of  a  worm,  the  man-scheme  must  have  been  in- 
87 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

herent  in  the  worm;  but  extrinsic  conditions  must 
have  favored  and  guided  the  development  of  the 
higher  form. 

The  moisture  and  the  warmth  do  not  determine 
the  kind  of  plant  or  tree  that  shall  arise  from  the 
seed  you  sow,  but  without  them  there  would  be  no 
tree  and  no  plant.  Huxley's  phrase,  "the  predes- 
tined evolution"  of  all  forms  of  life,  constantly 
comes  to  my  mind:  some  inherent  primordial  bias 
or  impulse  or  force  that  made  the  tree  of  life  branch 
thus  and  thus  and  not  otherwise,  and  that  now  be- 
fore our  eyes  makes  the  pine  branch  one  way,  the 
oak  another,  the  elm  another. 

We  say  that  Nature  is  blind,  but  she  has  no  need 
of  eyes,  she  tries  all  courses:  she  has  infinite  time, 
infinite  power,  infinite  space;  and  so  far  as  our 
feeble  minds  can  see,  her  delight  is  to  play  this  game 
of  blindman's  buff  over  and  over  to  all  eternity. 
Her  creatures  get  life,  and  the  joy  and  pain  that  life 
brings,  but  what  is  augmented,  or  depleted,  or  con- 
cluded, or  satisfied,  or  fulfilled,  —  who  knows? 

Could  the  appearance  of  man  have  been  a  fortui- 
tous circumstance,  something  like  an  accident? 
Only  in  the  sense  that  the  appearance  of  anything 
else  in  nature  is  a  fortuitous  circumstance.  Things 
in  nature  are  not  planned  and  provided  for  as  we 
plan  and  provide  for  things.  They  all  seem  fortui- 
tous when  tried  by  our  standards,  like  the  storms. 
It  seems  like  a  sort  of  haphazard  business;  the 
88 


HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

whole  life  of  the  globe  does.  Such  delays,  such 
waste,  such  blind  groping,  such  hit-and-miss  efforts, 
such  apparent  indifference  on  the  part  of  Nature  as 
to  which  combatant  succeeds;  life  preying  upon  life, 
form  devouring  form,  species  after  species  becoming 
extinct,  internecine  war  on  every  hand,  clashing 
forces,  clashing  interests  from  one  end  of  creation  to 
the  other;  turmoil,  defeat,  failure,  death,  every- 
where; the  very  elemental  forces  pitted  against  one 
another,  —  frost  and  heat,  fluid  and  solid,  growth 
and  decay  struggling  for  the  mastery,  the  earth 
building  up,  the  air  and  the  rains  pulling  down,  — 
yet  out  of  this  chaos  and  strife  has  come  the  flower, 
has  come  the  grass,  has  come  the  bird,  has  come  man, 
has  come  the  "apple-blossomed  earth"  as  we  know 
it.  Underneath  and  through  all  some  kind  of  law 
and  order  has  prevailed,  something  like  will  and 
purpose  seem  to  have  been  at  work. 

Would  creation  have  been  a  failure  had  man  not 
appeared?  From  our  point  of  view  it  certainly 
would,  but  how  about  the  point  of  view  of  the  All? 
The  All  is  not  to  be  tried  by  our  standards.  We  can- 
not measure  it  or  corner  it  with  a  question.  Man  did 
appear,  and  he  seems  the  net  outcome  of  the  animal 
life  of  the  globe;  he  has  taken  possession  of  it  all  as 
no  other  animal  has  or  can;  he  masters  the  forces,  he 
penetrates  its  secrets,  he  understands  its  mechan- 
isms, he  traces  its  laws,  he  grasps  its  meanings,  he 
uses  its  treasures.  All  other  animals  are  as  stocks 
89 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

and  stones  beside  him.  Until  man  appeared  with 
his  endowment  of  reason,  his  moral  consciousness, 
the  earth  was  a  mere  menagerie  of  blind  savage 
forces.  Hundreds  of  millions  of  years  of  mere 
growth  and  decay,  birth  and  death,  struggle  and 
slaughter,  building  up  and  tearing  down,  submer- 
gence and  elevation,  erosion  and  denudation,  sculp- 
turing and  shifting  of  land-forms;  the  rise  and  ex- 
tinction and  slow  evolution  —  oh,  so  slow!  —  of 
animal  forms.  Millions  of  years  of  corals  and 
trilobites,  millions  of  years  of  mollusks  and  fishes, 
millions  of  years  of  reptiles  and  amphibians,  ages  of 
gigantic  mammals,  ages  of  quadrumana,  before  man 
appears:  then  ages  of  rude  savage  life  before  the 
dawn  of  civilization.  If  the  Creator  was  aiming  at 
man  all  these  long  geologic  ages,  groping  his  way 
through  these  low,  and  then  through  these  gigantic 
repellent  forms,  how  blindly  and  indifferently  He 
seems  to  have  worked ! 

Yet  through  this  hit-and-miss  method  of  Nature, 
things  have  come  to  what  they  are;  life  has  come  to 
what  we  behold  it;  the  trees  and  the  plants  are  in 
their  places;  the  animals  are  adjusted  to  their  envi- 
ronments; the  seeds  are  sown,  fruits  ripen,  the  rains 
come,  the  weather  system  is  established,  and  the 
vast  and  complex  machinery  of  the  life  of  the  globe 
runs  more  or  less  smoothly,  undirected,  in  the 
human  sense.  Blind  groping,  experimenting,  re- 
gardless of  waste,  regardless  of  pain,  regardless  of 
90 


'HIT-AND-MISS  METHOD  OF  NATURE 

failure,  circuitous,  fortuitous,  ambiguous,  traversing 
the  desert  and  the  wilderness  without  chart  or  com- 
pass, beset  by  geologic,  biologic,  and  cosmic  catas- 
trophes and  delays,  yet  the  great  procession  of  the 
life  of  the  globe,  with  man  at  its  head,  has  arrived 
and  entered  into  full  possession  of  the  inheritance 
prepared  for  it. 

How  difficult  to  think  of  it  all  as  brought  about  by 
the  random  method  of  Nature  which  I  have  been 
discussing  —  a  score  of  failures  to  one  success,  a 
hundred  bullets  astray  to  one  that  goes  to  the  mark; 
and  yet  apparently  such  is  the  fact. 

The  course  of  evolution  has  been  a  wayward, 
blundering  course.1  The  creative  energy  has  felt  its 
way  from  form  to  form,  as  an  inventor  feels  his  way 
in  working  out  his  ideas  —  failing,  discarding, 
changing,  but  improving,  advancing;  and  life  is 
what  it  is  because  it  had  an  onward  and  upward 
trend  to  begin  with,  and  this  inherent  aspiration  has 
never  gone  out.  Life  cannot  stand  still;  it  is  its 
nature  to  develop,  expand,  increase.  The  sum  of 
matter  and  the  sum  of  force  in  the  universe  cannot 
be  increased,  but  the  sum  of  life  has  been  increasing 

1  These  and  other  remarks  on  life  and  evolution  in  this  volume 
might  have  been  borrowed  from  Henri  Bergson's  great  work, 
"Creative  Evolution,"  but  they  were  not;  they  were  all  written 
long  before  I  had  ever  heard  Bergson's  name.  Readers  of  Kant 
and  Goethe  and  our  own  Emerson  got  their  minds  fertilized  by 
the  non-mechanical  (Bergsonian)  idea  of  creation  long  before 
the  advent  of  that  philosopher. 
91 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

from  the  first.  Matter  does  not  beget  matter,  but 
life  does  beget  life. 

Given  this  tendency  to  increase,  to  seek  new 
forms,  will  natural  selection  do  the  rest?  Start  the 
worm,  and  in  due  time  will  man  appear?  The  finite 
mind,  the  mind  developed  and  disciplined  in  this 
world  of  effort,  of  rule  and  guidance,  of  cause  and 
effect,  fails  to  see  how  the  unguided,  the  irrespon- 
sible, fortuitous  action  of  a  multitude  of  cells  would 
and  could  build  up  the  human  body,  or  any  other 
living  body.  Count  and  analyze  every  cell  in  a 
man's  body,  and  you  have  not  found  the  man:  he  is 
the  result  of  all  the  myriads  of  cells  acting  in  unison; 
he  is  the  unit  arising  out  of  this  vast  multiplex  series 
of  units;  they  are  all  coordinated  and  working  to- 
gether to  an  end  which  no  one  of  them,  nor  any 
group  of  them,  knows.  The  man  is  a  unit,  the  tree  is 
a  unit,  the  flower,  the  fruit,  is  a  unit;  each  with 
form,  structure,  color,  quality  of  its  own,  each  made 
up  and  built  up  of  an  incalculable  number  of 
minute  units,  none  of  which  have  the  secret  of  the 
key  to  the  whole.  There  must  be  a  plan  which  is  not 
in  the  keeping  of  the  cells.  These  units  act  together 
as  the  men  of  an  army  act  together  in  battle,  carry- 
ing out  a  system  of  manoeuvres  and  of  tactics,  of 
which  individually  they  know  nothing. 

Who  does  know?  Whose  plan  is  it?  Who  and 
where  is  the  general  who  is  conducting  the  cam- 
paign? 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

I  HAVE  a  barn-door  outlook  because  I  have  a 
hay-barn  study,  and  I  chose  a  hay-barn  study 
because  I  wanted  a  barn-door  outlook  —  a  wide, 
near  view  into  fields  and  woods  and  orchards  where 
I  could  be  on  intimate  terms  with  the  wild  life 
about  me,  and  with  free,  open-air  nature. 

Usually  there  is  nothing  small  or  stingy  about  a 
barn  door,  and  a  farmer's  hay-barn  puts  only  a  very 
thin  partition  between  you  and  the  outside  world. 
Therefore,  what  could  be  a  more  fit  place  to  thresh 
out  dry  philosophical  subjects  than  a  barn  floor?  I 
have  a  few  such  subjects  to  thresh  out,  and  I  thresh 
them  here,  turning  them  over  as  many  times  as  we 
used  to  turn  over  the  oat  and  rye  sheaves  in  the  old 
days  when  I  wielded  the  hickory  flail  with  my 
brothers  on  this  same  barn  floor. 

What  a  pleasure  it  is  to  look  back  to  those 
autumn  days,  generally  in  September  or  early  Octo- 
ber, when  we  used  to  thresh  out  a  few  bushels  of  the 
new  crop  of  rye  to  be  taken  to  the  grist-mill  for  a 
fresh  supply  of  flour !  How  often  we  paused  in  our 
work  to  munch  apples  that  had  been  mellowing  in 
the  haymow  by  our  side,  and  look  out  through  the 
93 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

big  doorway  upon  the  sunlit  meadows  and  hill- 
slopes!  The  sound  of  the  flail  is  heard  in  the  old 
barn  no  more,  but  in  its  stead  the  scratching  of  a 
pen  and  the  uneasy  stirring  of  a  man  seated  there 
behind  a  big  box,  threshing  out  a  harvest  for  a  loaf 
of  much  less  general  value. 

As  I  sit  here  day  after  day,  bending  over  my 
work,  I  get  many  glimpses  of  the  little  rills  of  wild 
life  that  circulate  about  me.  The  feature  of  it  that 
impresses  me  most  is  the  life  of  fear  that  most  of  the 
wild  creatures  lead.  They  are  as  alert  and  cautious 
as  are  the  picket-lines  of  opposing  armies.  Just 
over  the  line  of  stone  wall  in  the  orchard  a  wood- 
chuck  comes  hesitatingly  out  of  his  hole  and  goes 
nibbling  in  the  grass  not  fifty  feet  away.  How  alert 
and  watchful  he  is!  Every  few  moments  he  sits 
upright  and  takes  an  observation,  then  resumes  his 
feeding.  When  I  make  a  slight  noise  he  rushes  to  the 
cover  of  the  stone  wall.  Then,  as  no  danger  appears, 
he  climbs  to  the  top  of  it  and  looks  in  my  direction. 
As  I  move  as  if  to  get  up,  he  drops  back  quietly  to 
his  hole. 

A  chipmunk  comes  along  on  the  stone  wall,  hur- 
rying somewhere  on  an  important  errand,  but 
changing  his  course  every  moment.  He  runs  on  the 
top  of  the  wall,  then  along  its  side,  then  into  it  and 
through  it  and  out  on  the  other  side,  pausing  every 
few  seconds  and  looking  and  listening,  careful  not 
to  expose  himself  long  in  any  one  position,  really 
94 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

skulking  and  hiding  all  along  his  journey.  His  ene- 
mies are  keen  and  watchful  and  likely  to  appear  at 
any  moment,  and  he  knows  it,  not  so  much  by 
experience  as  by  instinct.  His  young  are  timid  and 
watchful  the  first  time  they  emerge  from  the  den 
into  the  light  of  day. 

Then  a  red  squirrel  comes  spinning  along.  By 
jerks  and  nervous,  spasmodic  spurts  he  rushes 
along  from  cover  to  cover  like  a  soldier  dodging  the 
enemy's  bullets.  When  he  discovers  me,  he  pauses, 
and  with  one  paw  on  his  heart  appears  to  press  a 
button,  that  lets  off  a  flood  of  snickering,  explosive 
sounds  that  seem  like  ridicule  of  me  and  my  work. 
Failing  to  get  any  response  from  me,  he  presently 
turns,  and,  springing  from  the  wall  to  the  bending 
branch  of  a  near  apple-tree,  he  rushes  up  and  disap- 
pears amid  the  foliage.  Presently  I  see  him  on  the 
end  of  a  branch,  where  he  seizes  a  green  apple  not 
yet  a  third  grown,  and,  darting  down  to  a  large 
horizontal  branch,  sits  up  with  the  apple  in  his 
paws  and  proceeds  to  chip  it  up  for  the  pale,  unripe 
seeds  at  its  core,  all  the  time  keenly  alive  to  possible 
dangers  that  may  surround  him.  What  a  nervous, 
hustling,  highstrung  creature  he  is  —  a  live  wire  at 
all  times  and  places !  That  pert  curl  of  the  end  of  his 
tail,  as  he  sits  chipping  the  apple  or  cutting  through 
the  shell  of  a  nut,  is  expressive  of  his  character. 
What  a  contrast  his  nervous  and  explosive  activity 
presents  to  the  more  sedate  and  dignified  life  of  the 
95 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

gray  squirrel!  One  of  these  passed  us  only  a  few 
yards  away  on  our  walk  in  the  woods  the  other  day 
—  a  long,  undulating  line  of  soft  gray,  silent  as  a 
spirit  and  graceful  as  a  wave  on  the  beach. 

A  little  later,  in  the  fine,  slow-falling  rain,  a 
rabbit  sudddenly  emerges  into  my  field  of  vision 
fifty  feet  away.  How  timid  and  scared  she  looks! 
She  pauses  a  moment  amid  the  weeds,  then  hops  a 
yard  or  two  and  pauses  again,  then  passes  under 
the  bars  and  hesitates  on  the  edge  of  a  more  open 
and  exposed  place  immediately  in  front  of  me.  Here 
she  works  her  nose,  feeling  of  every  current  of  air, 
analyzing  every  scent  to  see  if  danger  is  near.  Ap- 
parently detecting  something  suspicious  in  the  cur- 
rents that  drift  from  my  direction,  she  turns  back, 
pauses  again,  works  her  nose  as  before,  then  hurries 
out  of  my  sight. 

Yesterday  I  saw  a  rat  stealing  green  peas  from 
my  garden  in  the  open  day.  He  darted  out  of  the 
stone  wall  six  or  eight  feet  away  to  the  row  of  peas, 
rushed  about  nervously  among  the  vines;  then, 
before  I  could  seize  my  rifle,  darted  back  to  the 
cover  of  the  wall.  Once  I  cautiously  approached  his 
hiding-place  in  the  wall  and  waited.  Presently  his 
head  emerged  from  the  line  of  weeds  by  the  fence, 
his  nose  began  working  anxiously,  he  sifted  and 
resifted  the  air  with  it,  and  then  quickly  withdrew; 
his  nose  had  detected  me,  but  his  eye  had  not.  The 
touchstone  of  most  animals  is  the  nose,  and  not  the 
96 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

eye.  The  eye  quickly  detects  objects  in  motion,  but 
not  those  at  rest;  this  is  the  function  of  the  nose. 

A  highhole  alights  on  the  ground  in  full  view  in 
the  orchard  twenty  yards  away,  and,  spying  my 
motionless  figure,  pauses  and  regards  me  long  and 
intently.  His  eye  serves  him,  and  not  his  nose. 
Finally  concluding  that  I  am  not  dangerous,  he 
stoops  to  the  turf  for  his  beloved  ants  and  other 
insects,  but  lifts  his  head  every  few  seconds  to  see 
that  no  danger  is  imminent.  Not  one  moment  is  he 
off  his  guard.  A  hawk  may  suddenly  swoop  from 
the  air  above,  or  a  four-footed  foe  approach  from 
any  side.  I  have  seen  a  sharp-shinned  hawk  pick  up 
a  highhole  from  the  turf  in  a  twinkling  under  just 
such  conditions.  What  a  contrast  between  the 
anxious  behavior  of  these  wild  creatures  and  the 
ease  and  indifference  of  the  grazing  cattle ! 

All  the  wild  creatures  evidently  regard  me  with 
mingled  feelings  of  curiosity  and  distrust.  A  song 
sparrow  hops  and  flirts  and  attitudinizes  and  peers 
at  me  from  the  door-sill,  wondering  if  there  is  any 
harm  in  me.  A  phcebe-bird  comes  in  and  flits  about, 
disturbed  by  my  presence.  For  the  third  or  fourth 
time  this  season,  I  think,  she  is  planning  a  nest.  In 
June  she  began  one  over  a  window  on  the  porch 
where  I  sleep  in  the  open  air.  She  had  the  founda- 
tion laid  when  I  appeared,  and  was  not  a  little  dis- 
turbed by  my  presence,  especially  in  the  early 
morning,  when  I  wanted  to  sleep  and  she  wanted  to 
97 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

work.  She  let  fall  some  of  her  mortar  upon  me,  but 
at  least  I  had  no  fear  of  a  falling  brick.  She  gradu- 
ally got  used  to  me,  and  her  work  was  progressing 
into  the  moss  stage  when  two  women  appeared  and 
made  their  beds  upon  the  porch,  and  in  the  morning 
went  to  and  fro  with  brooms,  of  course.  Then 
Phoebe  seemed  to  say  to  herself,  "This  is  too  much," 
and  she  left  her  unfinished  nest  and  resorted  to  the 
empty  hay-barn.  Here  she  built  a  nest  on  one  of  the 
bark-covered  end  timbers  halfway  up  the  big  mow, 
not  being  quite  as  used  to  barns  and  the  exigencies 
of  haying-times  as  swallows  are,  who  build  their 
mud  nests  against  the  rafters  in  the  peak.  She  had 
deposited  her  eggs,  when  the  haymakers  began 
pitching  hay  into  the  space  beneath  her;  sweating, 
hurrying  haymakers  do  not  see  or  regard  the  rights 
or  wants  of  little  birds.  Like  a  rising'  tide  the  fra- 
grant hay  rose  and  covered  the  timber  and  the  nest, 
and  crept  on  up  toward  the  swallow's  unfledged 
family  in  the  peak,  but  did  not  quite  reach  it. 

Phcebe  and  her  mate  hung  about  the  barn  discon- 
solate for  days,  and  now,  ten  days  later,  she  is  hov- 
ering about  my  open  door  on  the  floor  below,  evi- 
dently prospecting  for  another  building-site.  I  hope 
she  will  find  me  so  quiet  and  my  air  so  friendly  that 
she  will  choose  a  niche  on  the  hewn  timber  over  my 
head.  Just  this  moment  I  saw  her  snap  up  a  flying 
"miller"  in  the  orchard  a  few  rods  away.  She  was 
compelled  to  swoop  four  times  before  she  inter- 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

cepted  that  little  moth  in  its  unsteady,  zigzagging 
flight.  She  is  an  expert  at  this  sort  of  thing;  it  is  her 
business  to  take  her  game  on  the  wing;  but  the 
moths  are  experts  in  zigzag  flying,  and  Phoebe 
missed  her  mark  three  times.  I  heard  the  snap  of 
her  beak  at  each  swoop.  It  is  almost  impossible  for 
any  insectivorous  bird  except  a  flycatcher  to  take  a 
moth  or  a  butterfly  on  the  wing. 

Last  year  in  August  the  junco,  or  common  snow- 
bird, came  into  the  big  barn  and  built  her  nest  in  the 
side  of  the  haymow,  only  a  few  feet  from  me.  The 
clean,  fragrant  hay  attracted  her  as  it  had  attracted 
me.  One  would  have  thought  that  in  a  haymow  she 
had  nesting  material  near  at  hand.  But  no;  her 
nest-building  instincts  had  to  take  the  old  rut;  she 
must  bring  her  own  material  from  without;  the 
haymow  was  only  the  mossy  bank  or  the  wood-side 
turf  where  her  species  had  hidden  their  nests  for 
untold  generations.  She  did  not  weave  one  spear  of 
the  farmer's  hay  into  her  nest,  but  brought  in  the 
usual  bits  of  dry  grass  and  weeds  and  horsehair  and 
shaped  the  fabric  after  the  old  pattern,  tucking  it 
well  in  under  the  drooping  locks  of  hay.  As  I  sat 
morning  after  morning  weaving  my  thoughts  to- 
gether and  looking  out  of  the  great  barn  doorway 
into  sunlit  fields,  the  junco  wove  her  straws  and 
horsehairs,  and  deposited  there  on  three  successive 
days  her  three  exquisite  eggs. 

Why  the  bird  departed  so  widely  from  the  usual 
99 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

habits  of  nest-building  of  her  species,  who  can  tell? 
I  had  never  before  seen  a  junco's  nest  except  on  the 
ground  in  remote  fields,  or  in  mossy  banks  by  the 
side  of  mountain  roads.  This  nest  is  the  finest  to 
be  found  upon  the  ground,  its  usual  lining  of 
horsehair  makes  its  interior  especially  smooth  and 
shapely,  and  the  nest  in  the  haymow  showed  only  a 
little  f alling-off,  as  is  usually  the  case  in  the  second 
nest  of  the  season.  The  songs  of  the  birds,  the  con- 
struction of  then*  nests,  and  the  number  of  their  eggs 
taper  off  as  the  season  wanes. 

The  junco  impresses  me  as  a  fidgety,  emphatic, 
feather-edged  sort  of  bird;  the  two  white  quills  in 
its  tail  which  flash  out  so  suddenly  on  every  move- 
ment seem  to  stamp  in  this  impression.  My  junco 
was  a  little  nervous  at  first  and  showed  her  white 
quills,  but  she  soon  grew  used  to  my  presence,  and 
would  alight  upon  the  chair  which  I  kept  for  callers, 
and  upon  my  hammock-ropes. 

When  an  artist  came  to  paint  my  portrait  amid 
such  rustic  surroundings,  the  bird  only  eyed  her  a 
little  suspiciously  at  first,  and  then  went  forward 
with  her  own  affairs.  One  night  the  wind  blew  the 
easel  with  its  canvas  over  against  the  haymow  where 
the  nest  was  placed,  but  the  bird  was  there  on  her 
eggs  in  the  morning.  Her  wild  instincts  did  not 
desert  her  in  one  respect,  at  least:  when  I  would 
flush  her  from  the  nest  she  would  drop  down  to  the 
floor  and  with  spread  plumage  and  fluttering  move- 
100 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

ments  seek  for  a  moment  to  decoy  me  away  from 
the  nest,  after  the  habit  of  most  ground-builders. 
The  male  came  about  the  barn  frequently  with 
three  or  four  other  juncos,  which  I  suspect  were  the 
first  or  June  brood  of  the  pair,  now  able  to  take  care 
of  themselves,  but  still  held  together  by  the  family 
instinct,  as  often  happens  in  the  case  of  some  other 
birds,  such  as  bluebirds  and  chickadees. 

My  little  mascot  hatched  all  her  eggs,  and  all 
went  well  with  mother  and  young  until,  during  my 
absence  of  three  or  four  days,  some  night-prowler, 
probably  a  rat,  plundered  the  nest,  and  the  little 
summer  idyl  in  the  heart  of  the  old  barn  abruptly 
ended.  I  saw  the  juncos  no  more. 

While  I  was  so  closely  associated  with  the  junco 
in  the  old  barn  I  had  a  good  chance  to  observe  her 
incubating  habits.  I  was  surprised  at  the  frequent 
and  long  recesses  that  she  took  during  school-hours. 
Every  hour  during  the  warmest  days  she  was  off 
from  ten  to  twelve  minutes,  either  to  take  the  air  or 
to  take  a  bite,  or  to  let  up  on  the  temperature  of  her 
eggs,  or  to  have  a  word  with  her  other  family;  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  know  which.  Toward  the  end  of  her 
term,  which  was  twelve  days,  and  as  the  days  grew 
cooler,  she  was  not  gadding  out  and  in  so  often,  but 
kept  her  place  three  or  four  hours  at  a  time. 

When  the  young  were  hatched  they  seemed 
mainly  fed  with  insects  —  spiders  or  flies  gathered 
off  the  timbers  and  clapboards  of  the  inside  of  the 
101 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

barn.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  the  mother-bird 
making  the  rounds  of  the  barn,  running  along  the 
timbers,  jumping  up  here  and  there,  and  seizing 
some  invisible  object,  showing  the  while  her  white 
petticoats  —  as  a  French  girl  called  that  display  of 
white  tail-feathers. 

Day  after  day  and  week  after  week  as  I  look 
through  the  big,  open  barn  door  I  see  a  marsh 
hawk  beating  about  low  over  the  fields.  He,  or 
rather  she  (for  I  see  by  the  greater  size  and  browner 
color  that  it  is  the  female),  moves  very  slowly  and 
deliberately  on  level,  flexible  wing,  now  over  the 
meadow,  now  over  the  oat  or  millet  field,  then 
above  the  pasture  and  the  swamp,  tacking  and  turn- 
ing, her  eye  bent  upon  the  ground,  and  no  doubt 
sending  fear  or  panic  through  the  heart  of  many  a 
nibbling  mouse  or  sitting  bird.  She  occasionally 
hesitates  or  stops  in  her  flight  and  drops  upon  the 
ground,  as  if  seeking  insects  or  frogs  or  snakes.  I 
have  never  yet  seen  her  swoop  or  strike  after  the 
manner  of  other  hawks.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  watch  her 
through  the  glass  and  see  her  make  these  circuits  of 
the  fields  on  effortless  wing,  day  after  day,  and 
strike  no  bird  or  other  living  thing,  as  if  in  quest  of 
something  she  never  finds.  I  never  see  the  male. 
She  has  perhaps  assigned  him  other  territory  to  hunt 
over.  He  is  smaller,  with  more  blue  in  his  plumage. 
One  day  she  had  a  scrap  or  a  game  of  some  kind 
with  three  or  four  crows  on  the  side  of  a  rocky  hill. 
102 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

I  think  the  crows  teased  and  annoyed  her.  I  heard 
their  cawing  and  saw  them  pursuing  the  hawk,  and 
then  saw  her  swoop  upon  them  or  turn  over  in  the 
air  beneath  them,  as  if  to  show  them  what  feats  she 
could  do  on  the  wing  that  were  beyond  their  powers. 
The  crows  often  made  a  peculiar  guttural  cawing 
and  cackling  as  if  they  enjoyed  the  sport,  but  they 
were  clumsy  and  awkward  enough  on  the  wing 
compared  to  the  hawk.  Time  after  time  she  came 
down  upon  them  from  a  point  high  in  the  air,  like  a 
thunderbolt,  but  never  seemed  to  touch  them. 
Twice  I  saw  her  swoop  upon  them  as  they  sat  upon 
the  ground,  and  the  crows  called  out  in  half 
sportive,  half  protesting  tones,  as  if  saying,  "  That 
was  a  little  too  close;  beware,  beware!"  It  was  like  a 
skillful  swordsman  flourishing  his  weapon  about  the 
head  of  a  peasant;  but  not  a  feather  was  touched  so 
far  as  I  could  see.  It  is  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  this 
hawk  in  a  sportive  or  aggressive  mood.  I  have  seen 
jays  tease  the  sharp-shinned  hawk  in  this  way,  and 
escape  his  retaliating  blows  by  darting  into  a  cedar- 
tree.  All  the  crow  tribe,  I  think,  love  to  badger  and 
mock  some  of  their  neighbors. 

How  much  business  the  crows  seem  to  have  apart 
from  hunting  their  living !  I  hear  their  voices  in  the 
morning  before  sun-up,  sounding  out  from  different 
points  of  the  fields  and  woods,  as  if  every  one  of 
them  were  giving  or  receiving  orders  for  the  day: 
*Here,  Jim,  you  do  this;  here,  Corvus,  you  go  there* 
103 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

and  put  that  thing  through";  and  Jim  caws  back  a 
response,  and  Corvus  says,  "I  'm  off  this  minute." 
I  get  the  impression  that  it  is  convention  day  or  gen- 
eral training  day  with  them.  There  are  voices  in  all 
keys  of  masculinity  and  femininity.  Here  and  there 
seems  to  be  one  in  authority  who  calls  at  intervals, 
"  Haw-ah,  haw,  haw-ah!"  Others  utter  a  strident 
"Haw!"  still  others  a  rapid,  feminine  call.  Some 
seem  hurrying,  others  seem  at  rest,  but  the  landscape 
is  apparently  alive  with  crows  carrying  out  some 
plan  of  concerted  action.  How  fond  they  must  be  of 
one  another !  What  boon  companions  they  are !  In 
constant  communication,  saluting  one  another 
from  the  trees,  the  ground,  the  air,  watchful  of  one 
another's  safety,  sharing  their  plunder,  uniting 
against  a  common  enemy,  noisy,  sportive,  preda- 
cious, and  open  and  aboveboard  in  all  their  ways 
and  doings  —  how  much  character  our  ebony  friend 
possesses,  in  how  many  ways  he  challenges  our  ad- 
miration ! 

What  a  contrast  the  crow  presents  to  the  silent, 
solitary  hawk!  The  hawks  have  but  two  occupa- 
tions —  hunting  and  soaring;  they  have  no  social  or 
tribal  relations,  and  make  no  show  of  business  as 
does  the  crow.  The  crow  does  not  hide;  he  seems  to 
crave  the  utmost  publicity;  his  goings  and  comings 
are  advertised  with  all  the  effectiveness  of  his 
strident  voice;  but  all  our  hawks  are  silent  and 
stealthy. 

104 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

Let  me  return  to  the  red  squirrel,  because  he  re- 
turns to  me  hourly.  He  is  the  most  frisky,  diverting, 
and  altogether  impish  of  all  our  wild  creatures.  He 
is  a  veritable  Puck.  All  the  other  wild  folk  that  cross 
my  field  of  vision,  or  look  in  upon  me  here  in  my 
fragrant  hay-barn  study,  seem  to  have  but  one  feel- 
ing about  me:  "What  is  it?  Is  it  dangerous?  Has  it 
any  designs  upon  me?"  But  my  appearance  seems 
to  awaken  other  feelings  in  the  red  squirrel.  He 
pauses  on  the  fence  or  on  the  rail  before  me,  and  goes 
through  a  series  of  antics  and  poses  and  hilarious 
gestures,  giving  out  the  while  a  stream  of  snickering, 
staccato  sounds  that  suggest  unmistakably  that  I 
am  a  source  of  mirth  and  ridicule  to  him.  His  ges- 
tures and  attitudes  are  all  those  of  mingled  mirth, 
curiosity,  defiance,  and  contempt  —  seldom  those  of 
fear.  He  comes  spinning  along  on  the  stone  wall  in 
front  of  me,  with  those  abrupt,  nervous  pauses  every 
few  yards  that  characterize  all  his  movements.  On 
seeing  me  he  checks  his  speed,  and  with  depressed 
tail  impels  himself  along,  a  few  inches  at  a  time,  in  a 
series  of  spasmodic  starts  and  sallies;  the  hind  part  of 
his  body  flattened,  and  his  legs  spread,  his  head  erect 
and  alert,  his  tail  full  of  kinks  and  quirks.  How 
that  tail  undulates !  Now  its  end  curls,  now  it  is 
flattened  to  the  stone,  now  it  springs  straight  up  as 
if  part  of  a  trap,  hind  feet  the  while  keeping  time 
in  a  sort  of  nervous  dance  with  the  shrill,  strident 
cackling  and  snickering.  The  next  moment  he  is 
105 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

sitting  erect  with  fore  paws  pressed  against  his 
white  chest,  his  tail  rippling  out  behind  him  or  up 
his  back,  and  his  shrill,  nasal  tones  still  pouring  out. 
He  hops  to  the  next  stone,  he  assumes  a  new  posi- 
tion, his  tail  palpitates  and  jerks  more  lively  than 
ever;  now  he  is  on  all  fours,  with  curved  back;  now 
he  sits  up  at  an  angle,  his  tail  all  the  time  charged 
with  mingled  suspicion  and  mirth.  Then  he  springs 
to  a  rail  that  runs  out  at  right  angles  from  the  wall 
toward  me,  and  with  hectoring  snickers  and  shrill 
trebles,  pointed  straight  at  me,  keeps  up  his  per- 
formance. What  an  actor  he  is !  What  a  furry  em- 
bodiment of  quick,  nervous  energy  and  imperti- 
nence! Surely  he  has  a  sense  of  something  like 
humor;  surely  he  is  teasing  and  mocking  me  and 
telling  me,  both  by  gesture  and  by  word  of  mouth, 
that  I  present  a  very  ridiculous  appearance. 

A  chipmunk  comes  hurrying  along  with  stuffed 
cheek-pouches,  traveling  more  on  the  side  of  the  wall 
than  on  the  top,  stopping  every  few  yards  to  see  that 
the  way  is  clear,  but  giving  little  heed  to  me  or  to  the 
performing  squirrel.  In  comparison  the  chipmunk 
is  a  demure,  preoccupied,  pretty  little  busybody  who 
often  watches  you  curiously,  but  never  mocks  you 
or  pokes  fun  at  you;  while  the  gray  squirrel  has  the 
manners  of  the  best-bred  wood-folk,  and  he  goes 
his  way  without  fuss  or  bluster,  a  picture  of  sylvan 
grace  and  buoyancy. 

All  the  movements  of  the  red  squirrel  are  quick, 
106 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

sharp,  jerky,  machine-like.  He  does  nothing  slowly 
or  gently;  everything  with  a  snap  and  a  jerk.  His 
progression  is  a  series  of  interrupted  sallies.  When 
he  pauses  on  the  stone  wall  he  faces  this  way  and 
that  with  a  sudden  jerk;  he  turns  round  in  two  or 
three  quick  leaps.  So  abrupt  and  automatic  in  his 
movements,  so  stiff  and  angular  in  behavior,  yet  he 
is  charged  and  overflowing  with  life  and  energy.  One 
thinks  of  him  as  a  bundle  of  steel  wires  and  needles 
and  coiled  springs,  all  electrically  charged.  One  of 
his  sounds  or  calls  is  like  the  buzz  of  a  reel  or 
the  whirr  of  an  alarm-clock.  Something  seems  to 
touch  a  spring  there  in  the  old  apple-tree,  and 
out  leaps  this  strident  sound  as  of  spinning  brass 
wheels. 

When  I  speak  sharply  to  him,  in  the  midst  of  his 
antics,  he  pauses  a  moment  with  uplifted  paw, 
watching  me  intently,  and  then  with  a  snicker 
springs  upon  a  branch  of  an  apple-tree  that  hangs 
down  near  the  wall,  and  disappears  amid  the  foli- 
age. The  red  squirrel  is  always  actively  saucy,  ag- 
gressively impudent.  He  peeps  in  at  me  through  a 
broken  pane  in  the  window  and  snickers;  he  strikes 
up  a  jig  on  the  stone  underpinning  twenty  feet  away 
and  mocks;  he  darts  in  and  out  among  the  timbers 
and  chatters  and  giggles;  he  climbs  up  over  the  door, 
pokes  his  head  in,  and  lets  off  a  volley;  he  moves  by 
jerks  along  the  sill  a  few  feet  from  my  head  and 
chirps  derisively;  he  eyes  me  from  points  on  the  wall 
107 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

in  front,  or  from  some  coign  of  vantage  in  the  barn, 
and  flings  his  anger  or  his  contempt  upon  me. 

No  other  of  our  wood-folk  has  such  a  facile,  emo- 
tional tail  as  the  red  squirrel.  It  seems  as  if  an  elec- 
tric current  were  running  through  it  most  of  the 
time;  it  vibrates,  it  ripples,  it  curls,  it  jerks,  it  arches, 
it  flattens;  now  it  is  like  a  plume  in  his  cap;  now  it  is 
a  cloak  around  his  shoulders;  then  it  is  an  instru- 
ment to  point  and  emphasize  his  states  of  emotional 
excitement;  every  movement  of  his  body  is  seconded 
or  reflected  in  his  tail.  There  seems  to  be  some  au- 
tomatic adjustment  between  his  tail  and  his  vocal 
machinery. 

The  tail  of  the  gray  squirrel  shows  to  best  advan- 
tage when  he  is  running  over  the  ground  in  the  woods 
—  and  a  long,  graceful,  undulating  line  of  soft  silver 
gray  the  creature  makes !  In  my  part  of  the  coun- 
try the  gray  squirrel  is  more  strictly  a  wood-dwel- 
ler than  the  red,  and  has  the  grace  and  elusiveness 
that  belong  more  especially  to  the  sylvan  creatures. 

The  red  squirrel  can  play  a  tune  and  accompany 
himself.  Underneath  his  strident,  nasal  snicker  you 
may  hear  a  note  in  another  key,  much  finer  and 
shriller.  Or  it  is  as  if  the  volume  of  sound  was  split 
up  into  two  strains,  one  proceeding  from  his  throat 
and  the  other  from  his  mouth. 

If  the  red  squirrels  do  not  have  an  actual  game  of 
tag,  they  have  something  so  near  it  that  I  cannot 
tell  the  difference.  Just  now  I  see  one  in  hot  pursuit 
108 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

of  another  on  the  stone  wall;  both  are  apparently 
going  at  the  top  of  their  speed.  They  make  a  red 
streak  over  the  dark-gray  stones.  When  the  pursuer 
seems  to  overtake  the  pursued  and  becomes  "It," 
the  race  is  reversed,  and  away  they  go  on  the  back 
track  with  the  same  fleetness  of  the  hunter  and  the 
hunted,  till  things  are  reversed  again.  I  have  seen 
them  engaged  in  the  same  game  in  tree-tops,  each 
one  having  his  innings  by  turn. 

The  gray  squirrel  comes  and  goes,  but  the  red 
squirrel  we  have  always  with  us.  He  will  live  where 
the  gray  will  starve.  He  is  a  true  American;  he  has 
nearly  all  the  national  traits  —  nervous  energy, 
quickness,  resourcefulness,  pertness,  not  to  say  im- 
pudence and  conceit.  He  is  not  altogether  lovely  or 
blameless.  He  makes  war  on  the  chipmunk,  he  is  a 
robber  of  birds'  nests,  and  is  destructive  of  the  or- 
chard fruits.  Nearly  every  man's  hand  is  against 
him,  yet  he  thrives,  and  long  may  he  continue  to 
do  so! 

One  day  I  placed  some  over-ripe  plums  on  the  wall 
in  front  of  me  to  see  what  he  would  do  with  them.  At 
first  he  fell  eagerly  to  releasing  the  pit,  and  then  to 
cutting  his  way  to  the  kernel  in  the  pit.  After  one  of 
them  had  been  disposed  of  in  this  way,  he  proceeded 
to  carry  off  the  others  and  place  them  here  and  there 
amid  the  branches  of  a  plum-tree  from  which  he  had 
stolen  every  plum  long  before  they  were  ripe.  A  day 
or  two  later  I  noted  that  they  had  all  been  removed 
109 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

from  this  tree,  and  I  found  some  of  them  in  the  forks 
of  an  apple-tree  not  far  off. 

A  small  butternut-tree  standing  near  the  wall  had 
only  a  score  or  so  of  butternuts  upon  it  this  year;the 
squirrels  might  be  seen  almost  any  hour  in  the  day 
darting  about  the  branches  of  that  tree,  hunting  the 
green  nuts,  and  in  early  September  the  last  nut 
was  taken.  They  carried  them  away  and  placed 
them,  one  here  and  one  there,  in  the  forks  of  the 
apple-trees .  I  noticed  that  they  did  not  depend  upon 
the  eye  to  find  the  nuts;  they  did  not  look  the 
branches  over  from  some  lower  branch  as  you  and  I 
would  have  done;  they  explored  the  branches  one  by 
one,  running  out  to  the  end,  and,  if  the  nut  was  there, 
seized  it  and  came  swiftly  down.  I  think  the  red 
squirrel  rarely  lays  up  any  considerable  store,  but 
hides  his  nuts  here  and  there  in  the  trees  and  upon 
the  ground.  This  habit  makes  him  the  planter  of  fu- 
ture trees,  of  oaks,  hickories,  chestnuts,  and  butter- 
nuts. These  heavy  nuts  get  widely  scattered  by  this 
agency. 

One  morning  I  saw  a  chipmunk  catch  a  flying 
grasshopper  on  the  wing.  Little  Striped-Back  sat 
on  the  wall  with  stuffed  pockets,  waiting  for  some- 
thing, when  along  came  the  big  grasshopper  in  a 
hesitating,  uncertain  manner  of  flight.  As  it  hov- 
ered above  the  chipmunk,  the  latter  by  a  quick,  dex- 
terous movement  sprang  or  reached  up  and  caught 
it,  and  in  less  than  one  half -minute  its  f  anlike  wings 
110 


A  BARN-DOOR  OUTLOOK 

were  opening  out  in  front  of  the  captor's  mouth  and 
its  body  was  being  eagerly  devoured.  This  same 
chipmunk,  I  think  it  is,  has  his  den  under  the  barn 
near  me.  Often  he  comes  from  the  stone  wall  with 
distended  cheek-pouches,  and  pauses  fifteen  feet 
away,  close  by  cover,  and  looks  to  see  if  any  danger 
is  impending.  To  reach  his  hole  he  has  to  cross  an 
open  space  a  rod  or  more  wide,  and  the  thought  of 
it  evidently  agitates  him  a  little.  I  am  sitting  there 
looking  over  my  desk  upon  him,  and  he  is  skeptical 
about  my  being  as  harmless  as  I  look.  "  Dare  I  cross 
that  ten  feet  of  open  there  in  front  of  him?  "  he  seems 
to  say.  He  sits  up  with  fore  paws  pressed  so  pret- 
tily to  his  white  breast.  He  is  so  near  I  can  see  the 
rapid  throbbing  of  his  chest  as  he  sniffs  the  air.  A 
moment  he  sits  and  looks  and  sniffs,  then  in  hurried 
movements  crosses  the  open,  his  cheek-pockets  show- 
ing full  as  he  darts  by  me.  He  is  like  a  baseball  run- 
ner trying  to  steal  a  base:  danger  lurks  on  all  sides; 
he  must  not  leave  the  cover  of  one  base  till  he  sees 
the  way  is  clear,  and  then  —  off  with  a  rush !  Pray 
don't  work  yourself  up  to  such  a  pitch,  my  little 
neighbor;  you  shall  make  a  home-run  without  the 
slightest  show  of  opposition  from  me. 

One  day  a  gray  squirrel  came  along  on  the  stone 
wall  beside  the  road.  In  front  of  the  house  he 
crossed  an  open  barway,  and  then  paused  to  ob- 
serve two  men  at  work  in  full  view  near  the  house. 
The  men  were  a  sculptor,  pottering  with  clay,  and  his 
111 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

model.  The  squirrel  sprang  up  a  near-by  butternut- 
tree,  sat  down  on  a  limb,  and  had  a  good,  long  look. 
"Very  suspicious,"  he  seemed  to  think;  "maybe 
they  are  fixing  a  trap  for  me";  and  he  deliberately 
came  down  the  tree  and  returned  the  way  he  had 
come,  spinning  along  the  top  of  the  wall,  his  long, 
fine  tail  outlined  by  a  narrow  band  of  silver  as  he 
sped  off  toward  the  woods. 


VI 

THE  ANIMAL  MIND 


"TITTHEN I  try  to  picture  to  myself  the  difference 
f  ?  between  the  animal  mind  and  the  human 
mind,  I  seem  to  see  the  animal  mind  as  limited  by 
the  organization  and  the  physical  needs  of  its  pos- 
sessor in  a  sense  that  the  mind  of  man  is  not;  its 
mental  faculties,  if  we  may  call  them  such,  are  like 
its  tools  and  weapons,  a  part  of  its  physical  make-up, 
and  are  almost  entirely  automatic  in  their  action. 
Almost,  I  say;  but,  in  the  case  of  the  higher  animals, 
not  entirely  so.  In  the  anthropoid  apes,  in  the  dog, 
in  the  elephant,  and  maybe  occasionally  in  some 
others,  there  do  seem  to  be  at  times  the  rudiments 
of  free  intelligence,  something  like  mind  emanci- 
pated from  the  bondage  of  organization  and  in- 
herited habit. 

When  an  animal  acts  in  obedience  to  its  purely 
physical  needs  and  according  to  its  anatomical  struc- 
ture, as  when  ducks  take  to  the  water,  or  hens 
scratch,  or  hogs  root,  or  woodpeckers  drill,  we  do 
not  credit  it  with  powers  of  thought.  These  and 
similar  things  animals  do  instinctively.  When  the 
wood-mice  got  into  my  cabin  the  other  day  and 
113 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

opened  two  small  glass  jars  of  butter  that  had  loose 
tin  tops,  I  did  not  credit  them  with  anything  like 
human  intelligence,  because  to  use  their  paws  deftly 
—  digging,  climbing,  manipulating  —  is  natural  to 
mice.  I  have  seen  a  chipmunk  come  into  a  house 
from  his  den  in  the  woods  and  open  a  pasteboard 
box  with  great  deftness,  and  help  himself  to  the  nuts 
inside,  which,  of  course,  he  smelled.  We  do  not 
credit  a  bird  with  rational  intelligence  when  it  builds 
its  nest,  no  matter  how  skillfully  it  may  weave  or  sew, 
or  how  artfully  it  may  hide  it  from  its  enemies.  It 
is  doing  precisely  as  its  forebears  have  done  for 
countless  generations.  Hence  it  acts  from  inherited 
impulse. 

But  the  monkey  I  was  told  about  at  the  zoologi- 
cal park  in  Washington,  that  had  been  seen  to  select 
a  stiff  straw  from  the  bottom  of  its  cage,  and  use  it 
to  dislodge  an  insect  from  a  crack,  showed  a  gleam 
of  free  intelligence.  It  was  an  act  of  judgment  on 
the  part  of  the  monkey,  akin  to  human  judgment. 
In  like  manner  the  chimpanzee  Mr.  Hornaday  tells 
about,  that  used  the  trapeze-bar  in  the  cage  as  a 
lever  with  which  to  pry  off  the  horizontal  bars  on  the 
side  of  the  cage,  and  otherwise  to  demolish  things, 
showed  a  kind  of  intelligence  that  is  above  instinct, 
and  quite  beyond  the  capacity,  say,  of  a  dog. 

I  would  not  say,  as  Mr.  Hornaday  does,  that  this 
ape  discovered  the  principle  of  the  lever  as  truly  as 
Archimedes  did.  Would  it  not  be  better  to  say  that 
114 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

he  discovered  the  use  to  which  he  could  put  that 
particular  stick,  without  any  notion  of  the  principle 
involved?  —  just  as  he  had  doubtless  found  out  that 
an  object,  or  his  own  body  unsupported,  would  fall 
to  the  floor  of  his  cage,  without  having  grasped  the 
principle  of  gravitation. 

The  earliest  men  must  have  discovered  the  uses 
of  the  lever  long  before  they  had  any  true  under- 
standing of  its  principle.  I  do  not  believe  that  any 
of  the  orders  below  man  grasp  principles  at  all, 
though  they  may  apply  a  principle  in  their  act.  The 
beaver  applies  the  principle  of  the  dam  to  the  creek 
where  he  locates  his  house,  but  to  say  that  he  works 
from  an  intellectual  conception  of  that  principle,  I 
think,  would  be  to  lift  him  to  the  human  plane  at 
once.  The  swallow,  and  the  robin,  and  the  phrebe- 
bird,  all  act  upon  the  principle  that  mud  will  adhere 
to  a  rough  surface,  and  that  it  will  harden;  shall  we, 
therefore,  credit  them  with  a  knowledge  of  the  prop- 
erties of  mud?  However,  I  freely  admit  that  the 
act  of  the  chimpanzee  was  of  a  higher  order  than  the 
swallow's  use  of  mud  in  sticking  its  nest  to  a  rough 
surface.  Its  superior  intelligence  is  seen  in  its  pur- 
poseful use  of  a  tool,  an  object  in  no  wise  related  to 
itself,  to  bring  about  a  definite  end;  just  as  another 
monkey  of  which  Mr.  Hornaday  speaks  used  a 
stick  to  punch  a  banana  out  of  a  pipe. 

I  do  not  agree  with  those  who  urge  that  an  ani- 
mal, such  as  the  beaver  for  instance,  gives  proof 
115 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  its  gift  of  reason  when  it  amputates  its  leg  in  or- 
der to  escape  from  a  trap.  I  dissent  from  it  for  sev- 
eral reasons.  Animals  apparently  much  lower  in  the 
scale  of  intelligence  than  the  beaver,  such  as  the 
muskrat  and  the  skunk,  will  do  the  same  thing;  and 
animals  much  higher,  such  as  the  dog,  the  fox,  the 
wolf,  will  not  do  it.  Indeed,  it  has  been  found  that 
an  all  but  brainless  animal,  like  the  starfish,  will  do 
a  similar  thing.  In  order  to  get  free  of  a  piece  of 
rubber  tubing  placed  over  one  of  its  arms,  the  star- 
fish has,  after  exhausting  other  expedients,  been 
known  to  amputate  the  arm.  Hence,  I  infer  that  the 
beaver,  caught  in  a  trap,  does  not  reason  about  it, 
and  "  reach  the  conclusion  that  he  must  inflict  upon 
himself  the  pain  of  amputating  his  foot."  He  only 
shows  the  promptings  of  a  very  old  and  universal 
instinct,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation. 

Every  creature,  little  and  big,  that  has  powers  of 
locomotion,  struggles  against  that  which  would  for- 
cibly hold  it,  or  which  opposes  it.  A  cricket  or  a 
grasshopper  will  leave  a  leg  in  your  hand  in  order  to 
escape.  Try  forcibly  to  retain  the  paw  of  your  dog, 
or  your  cat,  and  see  how  it  will  struggle  to  be  free. 
A  four-footed  animal  caught  in  a  trap  is  filled  with 
rage  and  pain;  it  bites  at  everything  within  reach 
—  the  bushes,  the  logs,  the  rocks;  of  course  it  bites 
the  trap,  but  upon  the  steel  its  teeth  make  no  im- 
pression. If  the  animal  is  small,  and  the  season  is 
winter,  the  part  of  the  foot  that  protrudes  on  the 
116 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

inside  of  the  jaws  of  the  trap  soon  becomes  numb 
and  dead  or  frozen,  and  is  gnawed  off.  The  leg 
above  the  trap  may  become  frozen  and  senseless, 
and  the  amputation  of  it  give  little  pain. 

Trappers  tell  us  that  bears  often  resort  to  all  man- 
ner of  devices  to  get  rid  of  the  trap,  some  of  which 
seem  very  intelligent,  as,  for  instance,  when  they 
climb  a  tree,  and,  getting  the  trap  fast  amid  the 
branches,  bring  their  weight  to  bear  upon  it,  thus 
calling  in  the  aid  of  gravity.  But  I  would  as  soon 
think  that  such  behavior  on  the  part  of  the  bear  was 
the  result  of  a  reasoning  process  —  a  knowledge  of 
the  force  of  gravity  —  as  I  would  attribute  reason 
to  a  tree  because  it  tries  to  assume  the  perpendicu- 
lar, or  to  clouds,  because  they  soar  aloft  in  order  to 
let  down  the  rain.  The  bear  is  doing  his  best  to  get 
his  paw  out  of  the  jaws  of  the  trap,  and  in  his  blind 
fury  and  desperation  he  climbs  a  tree  and  tries  to 
detach  the  trap  there,  but  only  succeeds  in  getting  it 
fast,  when,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  drops  down 
and  pulls  out.  He  could  have  pulled  his  own  weight 
and  more  upon  the  ground  had  he  got  the  trap  fast. 
The  trapper's  hope  is  that  he  will  not  get  it  fast. 

We  reason  for  the  brute  when  we  interpret  its  ac- 
tion in  this  way.  I  do  not  suppose  that  with  the 
anger,  or  joy,  or  fear,  or  love-making,  of  our  brute 
neighbors  there  goes  any  idea,  or  mental  process,  or 
image  whatever;  only  involuntary  impulses  stimu- 
lated by  outward  conditions.  We  ourselves  are  often 
117 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

happy  without  thought,  scared  without  reason, 
angry  without  volition,  and  act  from  spontaneous 
impulse.  I  suppose  that  if  man  were  not  a  reason- 
able being  he  would  never  laugh,  because  it  is  the 
perception  of  some  sort  of  incongruity  that  makes 
us  laugh,  though  we  may  not  be  conscious  of  it. 

Animals  never  laugh,  and  probably  never  ex- 
perience in  any  degree  the  emotion  that  makes  us 
laugh,  because  their  minds  do  not  perceive  incon- 
gruities. Such  perception  is  an  intellectual  act  that 
is  beyond  them.  The  incongruous  only  strikes 
them  as  something  strange,  and  excites  their  sus- 
picion or  their  fears.  When  one  day  I  suddenly 
appeared  before  my  dog  in  a  suit  of  khaki,  a  garb 
in  which  he  had  never  before  seen  me,  did  it  excite 
his  mirth,  as  it  did  that  of  some  of  my  neighbors? 
On  the  contrary,  it  alarmed  him;  he  hesitated  a 
moment,  showing  conflicting  emotions,  then  edged 
away  suspiciously,  and  when  I  made  a  hostile  dem- 
onstration towards  him,  fled  precipitately  in  a  high 
state  of  anger  and  excitement.  Not  till  I  spoke  to 
him  in  the  old  tone  did  he  recover  himself  and  ap- 
proach me  in  a  humiliated,  apologetic  way. 

Our  anger,  our  joy,  our  sex  love,  our  selfishness, 
our  cruelty,  are  of  animal  origin;  but  our  sense  of 
the  ludicrous,  which  is  the  basis  of  our  wit  and 
humor,  our  hope,  our  faith,  our  feeling  of  reverence, 
of  altruism,  of  worship,  are  above  the  animal  sphere, 
as  is  the  faculty  of  reason.  They  are  of  animal 
118 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

origin  only  in  the  sense  that  man  himself  is  of  ani- 
mal origin.  They  are  not  endowments  from  some 
external  or  extra-human  source.  They  must  have 
been  potential  in  the  lower  orders  just  as  our 
limbs  were  potential  in  the  fins  of  the  fish,  and  our 
lungs  potential  in  its  air-bladder.  Evolution  must 
always  have  something  to  go  upon,  but  that  some- 
thing may  be  quite  beyond  our  human  ken,  as  it 
certainly  is  in  the  case  of  man's  higher  nature.  It  is 
much  easier  to  trace  the  feather  of  the  bird  to  the 
scale  of  the  fish  than  it  is  to  trace  our  moral  nature 
to  its  animal  origin.  Yet  this  is  the  only  possible 
source  science  can  assign  to  it,  because  it  is  the  only 
source  that  falls  within  the  sphere  of  physical  causa- 
tion, the  only  causation  science  knows. 

When  the  lower  animals  laugh,  I  shall  believe 
they  have  the  faculty  of  reason  also.  Think  how 
long  man  must  have  lived  before  he  became  a  laugh- 
ing animal  —  before  he  was  sufficiently  developed 
mentally  to  take  note  of  incongruities,  or  for  this  or 
that  object  or  incident  to  excite  his  mirth  instead  of 
his  fear!  When  I  first  saw  a  trolley-car  running 
along  the  street  without  any  apparent  means  of 
propulsion,  it  excited  my  surprise  and  curiosity. 
When  my  horse  first  saw  it,  he  was  filled  with  alarm. 
I  do  not  suppose  my  horse  had  the  same  mental 
process  about  it  that  I  had;  an  effect  without  an 
apparent  cause  could  have  been  nothing  to  him. 
He  was  moved  simply  by  the  strangeness  of  the 
119 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

spectacle.   It  was  a  sight  the  like  of  which  he  had 
never  seen  before. 

Stories  are  told  of  monkeys  that  would  seem  to 
indicate  in  them  some  perception  of  the  humorous, 
however  rudimentary,  but  I  recall  nothing  of  the 
kind  in  the  other  animals.  Of  course  the  impulse  of 
play  in  animals  springs  from  another  source  —  the 
instinct  to  develop  the  particular  powers  that 
their  life-careers  will  most  require.  Puppies  and 
kittens  fight  mock  battles  and  pursue  and  capture 
mock  game,  kids  leap  and  bound,  colts  run  and 
leap,  birds  swoop  and  dive  as  if  to  escape  a  hawk: 
in  each  case  training  the  powers  that  are  likely  to 
be  the  most  useful  to  them  in  after-life.  Our  play- 
instinct  is  no  doubt  of  animal  origin,  but  not  in  the 
same  sense  is  our  perception  of  the  humorous  of 
animal  origin.  It  originated  in  man,  as  did  so  many 
of  the  higher  emotions. 

ii 

One  of  the  best  illustrations  I  ever  had  of  the 
difference  between  animal  and  human  behavior  un- 
der like  conditions,  was  afforded  me  one  May  day 
in  the  woods,  when  I  unwittingly  pulled  down  the 
stub  of  a  small  tree  in  which  a  pair  of  bluebirds  had  a 
nest  and  young.  Now,  if  a  man  were  to  come  home 
and  find  his  house  gone,  and  only  empty  space 
where  it  had  stood,  he  would  not  go  up  to  the  place 
where  the  door  had  been  and  try  repeatedly  to  find 
120 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

the  entrance.  But  this  is  exactly  what  the  bluebirds 
did.  As  I  have  elsewhere  described,  I  had  pulled 
down  the  stub  that  held  their  nest  and  young,  not 
knowing  there  was  a  nest  there;  and  then  on  dis- 
covering my  mistake  had  set  the  stub  up  again 
twelve  or  fifteen  feet  from  where  I  had  found  it. 
Presently  the  mother  bird  came  with  food  in  her 
bill,  and  alighted  on  a  limb  a  few  feet  above  the 
spot  where  the  trunk  of  the  tree  holding  her  nest 
had  been,  and  where,  doubtless,  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  alighting.  She  must  have  seen  at  once  that 
her  house  was  gone,  but  if  she  did,  the  fact  made  no 
impression  upon  her. 

Quite  undisturbed,  she  dropped  down  to  the 
point  in  the  vacant  space  where  the  entrance  to  her 
nest  used  to  be.  She  hovered  there  a  moment  and 
then,  apparently  greatly  bewildered,  flew  back  to 
the  perch  above.  She  waited  there  a  moment, 
peering  downward,  and  then  tried  it  again.  Could 
she  not  see  that  her  house  was  gone?  But  the  force 
of  habit  was  stronger  with  her  than  any  free  intelli- 
gence she  might  possess.  She  had  always  found  the 
nest  there  and  it  must  be  there  still.  An  animal's 
reflexes  are  not  influenced  by  the  logic  of  the  situa- 
tion. Down  she  came  again  and  hovered  a  moment 
at  the  point  of  the  vanished  nest,  vainly  seeking  the 
entrance.  This  movement  she  repeated  over  and 
over.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  came  each  time  to 
the  precise  spot  in  the  air  where  her  treasures  had 
121 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

been.  It  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  convince  herself 
that  the  nest  was  not  there.  She  had  brought  a 
beetle  in  her  bill,  and  this  she  hammered  upon  the 
limb  each  time  she  perched,  as  if  it  in  some  way 
might  be  at  fault.  How  her  blue  wings  flickered  in 
the  empty  air  above  the  dark  water,  and  not  more 
than  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  actual  visible  en- 
trance to  the  nest  she  had  lost! 

Presently  she  dropped  her  bug  and  flew  off 
through  the  woods  calling  for  her  mate.  Her  action 
seemed  very  human.  Surely  he  would  clear  up  the 
mystery.  In  a  moment  or  two,  both  birds,  with  food 
in  their  bills,  were  perched  upon  the  branch  a  few 
feet  above  the  spot  where  the  nest  had  been.  I  can 
recall  yet  the  confident  air  with  which  the  male 
dropped  down  to  that  vacant  spot.  Could  he  not 
see  that  there  was  nothing  there?  No,  seeing  was 
not  convincing.  He  must  do  just  as  he  had  done 
so  many  times  before.  He  tried  it  again  and  again; 
then  the  two  birds  took  turns  in  trying  it.  They 
assaulted  the  empty  air  vigorously,  persistently, 
as  if  determined  that  it  must  give  up  their  lost  ones. 
Finally  they  perched  upon  a  branch  higher  up  and 
seemed  to  pause  to  consider.  The  machines  ceased 
to  act.  At  this  instant  the  mother  bird  spied  the 
hole  that  was  the  entrance  to  her  nest  and  flew 
straight  to  it.  Her  treasures  were  found. 

In  that  moment  did  she  cease  to  be  a  machine, 
and  show  a  spark  of  free  intelligence?  It  looks  so  at 
122 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

least.  She  acted  like  a  rational  being,  she  seemed 
at  last  to  have  got  it  into  her  head  that  the  nest  was 
no  longer  in  the  old  place,  and  that  she  must  look 
about  her.  I  do  not  say  that  this  is  the  true  expla- 
nation of  her  conduct;  it  is  rather  putting  one's  self 
in  her  place.  But  how  long  it  took  the  birds  to 
break  out  of  the  rut  of  habit !  It  did  not  seem  as  if 
their  intelligence  were  finally  influenced;  but  as  if 
their  instincts  had  become  discouraged  or  fatigued. 
They  were  not  convinced,  they  were  baffled.  Of 
course  you  cannot  convince  an  animal  as  you  can  a 
person,  because  there  is  no  reason  to  be  convinced, 
but  you  can  make  an  impression,  you  can  start  the 
formation  of  a  new  habit.  See  the  caged  animal  try 
to  escape,  or  the  tethered  one  try  to  break  its  tether, 
—  how  long  the  struggle  continues !  A  rational  be- 
ing would  quickly  be  convinced,  and  would  desist. 
But  instinct  is  automatic,  and  the  reaction  con- 
tinues. When  the  animal  ceases  its  struggles,  it  is 
not  as  the  result  of  a  process  of  ratiocination, — 
"  this  cage  or  this  chain  is  stronger  than  I  am,  there- 
fore I  cannot  escape,"  —  but  because  the  force  of 
instinct  has  spent  itself.  Man,  too,  is  more  or  less 
the  creature  of  habit,  but  the  lower  animals  are 
almost  entirely  so.  Only  now  and  then,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  mother  bluebird,  is  there  a  gleam  of 
something  like  the  power  of  free  choice. 

Animal  intelligence  is  like  the  figures  and  de- 
signs made  in  a  casting;  it  is  not  acquired  or  much 
123 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

changed  by  experience,  while  human  intelligence 
is  slowly  developed  through  man's  educative  ca- 
pacity. The  animal  is  a  creature  of  habits  inherited 
and  acquired,  in  a  sense  that  man  is  not;  certain 
things  may  be  stamped  into  the  animal's  mind,  and 
certain  things  may  be  stamped  out;  we  can  train  it 
into  the  formation  of  new  habits,  but  we  cannot 
educate  or  develop  its  mind  as  we  can  that  of  a 
child,  so  that  it  will  know  the  why  and  the  where- 
fore. It  does  the  trick  or  the  task  because  we  have 
shaped  its  mind  to  the  particular  pattern;  we  have 
stamped  in  this  idea,  which  is  not  an  idea  to  the 
animal  but  an  involuntary  impulse.  That  which 
exists  in  the  mind  of  man  as  mental  concepts,  free 
ideas,  exists  in  the  mind  of  the  animal  as  innate 
tendency  to  do  certain  things.  The  bird  has  an  im- 
pulse to  build  its  nest,  not  any  free  or  abstract 
ideas  about  nest-building;  probably  the  building 
is  not  preceded  or  attended  by  any  mental  processes 
whatever,  but  by  an  awakening  instinct,  an  in- 
herited impulse. 

A  man  can  be  reached  and  moved  or  influenced 
through  his  mind;  an  animal  can  be  reached  and 
moved  only  through  its  senses. 

The  animal  mind  seems  more  like  the  mind  we 
see  manifested  in  the  operations  of  outward  nature, 
than  like  our  own.  The  mind  we  see  active  in  out- 
ward nature  —  if  it  is  mind  —  is  so  unlike  our  own 
that  when  we  seek  to  describe  it  in  terms  of  our  own, 
124 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

ascribing  to  it  design,  plan,  purpose,  invention, 
rationality,  we  are  accused  of  anthropomorphism, 
and  science  will  not  listen  to  us.  Yet  all  we  know 
of  laws  and  principles,  of  cause  and  effect,  of  me- 
chanics and  dynamics,  of  chemistry  and  evolution, 
we  learn  from  this  outward  nature.  Through  our 
gift  of  reason  we  draw  out  and  formulate,  or  trans- 
late into  our  mental  concepts,  Nature's  method  of 
procedure.  Shall  we  say,  then,  that  Nature  is 
rational  without  reason?  wise  without  counsel? 
that  she  builds  without  rule,  and  dispenses  with- 
out plan?  is  she  full  of  mind-stuff,  or  does  she 
only  stimulate  the  mind-stuff  in  ourselves?  It  is 
evident  that  Nature  knows  not  our  wisdom  or  eco- 
nomics, our  prudence,  our  benevolence,  our  methods, 
our  science.  These  things  are  the  result  of  our  re- 
action to  the  stimulus  she  affords,  just  as  the  sensa- 
tion we  call  light  is  our  reaction  to  certain  vibra- 
tions, the  sensation  we  call  sound  is  the  reaction  to 
other  kinds  of  vibrations,  and  the  sensation  we  call 
heat,  the  reaction  to  still  other.  The  mind,  the 
reason,  is  in  us;  the  cause  of  it  is  in  Nature. 

When  we  translate  her  methods  into  our  own 
terms,  we  call  it  the  method  of  "  trial  and  error,"  — 
a  blind  groping  through  infinite  time  and  infinite 
space,  till  every  goal  is  reached.  If  her  arch  falls,  a 
stronger  arch  may  be  formed  by  its  ruins;  if  her 
worlds  collide,  other  worlds  may  be  born  of  the 
collision;  if  one  species  perishes,  other  species  may 
125 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

take  its  place;  always  if  her  "bark  sinks  't  is  to 
another  sea."  She  is  all  in  all,  and  all  the  parts  are 
hers.  Her  delays,  her  failures,  her  trials,  are  like 
those  of  a  blind  man  who  seeks  to  reach  a  particular 
point  in  an  unknown  landscape;  if  his  strength  holds 
out,  he  will  finally  reach  it.  Nature's  strength  al- 
ways holds  out;  she  reaches  her  goal  because  she 
leaves  no  direction  untried. 

She  felt  her  way  to  man  through  countless  forms, 
through  countless  geological  ages.  If  the  develop- 
ment of  man  was  possible  at  the  outset,  evolution 
was  bound  to  fetch  him  in  time;  if  not  in  a  million 
years,  then  in  a  billion  or  a  trillion.  In  the  con- 
flict of  forces,  mechanical  and  biological,  his  coming 
must  have  been  delayed  many  times;  the  cup  must 
have  been  spilled,  or  the  vessel  broken,  times  with- 
out number.  Hence  the  surplusage,  the  heaping 
measures  in  Nature,  her  prodigality  of  seed  and 
germ.  To  produce  one  brook  trout,  thousands  of 
eggs  perish;  to  produce  one  oak,  thousands  of 
acorns  are  cast.  If  there  is  the  remotest  chance  that 
our  solar  system  will  come  in  collision  with  some 
other  system,  —  and  of  course  there  is,  —  that  colli- 
sion is  bound  to  occur,  no  matter  if  the  time  is  so 
distant  that  it  would  take  a  row  of  figures  miles  in 
extent  to  express  it. 

I  am  aware  that  it  is  my  anthropomorphism  that 
compels  me  to  speak  of  Nature  in  this  way;  we 
have  to  describe  that  which  is  not  man  in  terms 
126 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

of  man,  because  we  have  no  other,  and  thereby 
tell  a  kind  of  untruth.  It  is  as  when  we  put  bird- 
songs  or  animal-calls  into  words,  or  write  them  on 
the  musical  scale,  —  we  only  hint  what  we  cannot 
express. 

I  look  out  of  my  window  and  see  the  tide  in  its 
endless  quest,  racing  up  and  racing  down  the  river; 
every  day,  every  night,  the  year  through;  for  a 
thousand,  for  a  million  years  it  goes  on,  and  no  one 
is  the  wiser,  yet  the  tides  have  played  their  part  in 
the  history  of  the  globe.  But  Nature's  cradle  keeps 
rocking  after  her  child  has  left  it.  Only  the  land 
benefits  from  the  rain,  and  yet  it  rains  upon  the 
sea  as  upon  the  land.  The  trees  ripen  their  fruits 
and  their  nuts  whether  there  is  any  creature  to  feed 
upon  them,  or  any  room  to  plant  them,  or  not.  Na- 
ture's purpose  (more  anthropomorphism)  embraces 
the  all,  she  covers  the  full  circle,  she  does  not  need 
to  discriminate  and  husband  her  resources  as  we 
do. 

"Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 
And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame." 

The  animals  are  so  wise  in  their  own  way,  such 
a  success,  without  thought  yet  so  provocative  of 
thought  in  us!  They  are  rational  without  reason, 
and  wise  without  understanding.  They  communi- 
cate without  language,  and  subsist  without  fore- 


THE  SUMMIT_OF  THE  YEARS 

thought.  They  weave  and  spin  and  drill  and  bore 
without  tools,  they  traverse  zones  without  guide  or 
compass,  they  are  cunning  without  instruction,  and 
prudent  without  precept.  They  know  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  the  depths  of  the  sea,  the  currents  of  the 
air,  and  are  at  home  in  the  wilderness.  We  ascribe 
to  them  thought  and  reason,  and  discuss  their 
psychology,  because  we  are  anthropomorphic;  we 
have  no  other  standards  than  those  furnished  by 
our  own  nature  and  experience. 

Animal  behavior,  as  I  have  said,  is  much  more 
like  the  behavior  of  natural  forces  than  is  that  of 
man:  the  animal  goes  along  with  Nature,  borne  along 
by  her  currents,  while  the  mind  of  man  crosses  and 
confronts  Nature,  thwarts  her,  uses  her,  or  turns 
her  back  upon  herself.  During  the  vast  aeons  while 
the  earth  was  peopled  by  the  lower  orders  alone, 
Nature  went  her  way.  But  when  this  new  animal, 
man,  appeared,  in  due  time  Nature  began  to  go  his 
way,  to  own  him  as  master.  Her  steam  and  her 
currents  did  his  work,  her  lightning  carried  his 
messages,  her  forces  became  his  servants. 

I  am  not  aware  that  any  animal  in  the  least  de- 
gree confronts  Nature  in  this  way  —  cuts  its  paths 
through  her,  and  arbitrarily  shapes  her.  Probably 
the  nearest  approach  to  it  is  among  the  insects, 
such  as  the  balloon-spiders  and  the  agricultural 
ants.  In  some  parts  of  the  country  one  might  think 
that  the  cow  was  a  landscape  gardener  from  the 
128 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

pretty  cone-shaped  forms  that  she  carves  out  of  the 
wild  apple  and  thorn  trees,  but  she  does  this  quite 
unwittingly  through  her  taste  for  the  young  shoots 
of  these  trees.  It  is  like  her  engineering  skill  in  lay- 
ing out  paths,  quite  inevitable  from  the  nature  of 
her  wants  and  activities. 

Man  is  the  only  inventive  and  tool-using  animal, 
because  he  alone  has  the  faculty  of  reason,  and  can 
see  the  end  of  a  thing  before  the  beginning.  With 
his  mind's  eye  he  sees  a  world  hidden  from  the 
lower  orders.  There  are  hints  of  this  gift  in  the 
lower  orders,  hints  of  reason,  of  language,  of  tool- 
using,  and  the  like,  but  hints  only. 

The  cries  and  calls  of  animals  must  have  preceded 
human  speech,  but  who  can  measure  the  gulf  be- 
tween them?  Man  must  have  had  animal  emotions 
—  fear,  hunger,  joy,  love,  hate  —  long  before  he 
had  ideas.  His  gift  of  language  and  his  gift  of  ideas 
must  have  grown  together,  and  mutually  reacted 
upon  one  another.  Without  language  could  he 
possess  ideas,  or  possess  ideas  without  language? 
Which  was  first? 

An  animal's  use  of  signals  —  warning  signals  and 
recognition  signals,  if  this  is  the  true  significance  of 
some  of  their  markings  —  is  as  unwitting  as  the 
flower's  use  of  its  perfume  or  its  colors  to  attract 
insects.  The  deer  flashes  its  shield  to  its  foe  as  well 
as  to  its  fellow. 

How  convincing  it  is  that  a  monkey  has  no  power 
129 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  thought  and  does  not  use  its  brain  as  we  do,  when 
we  see  one  unable  to  obtain  a  banana  placed  just 
beyond  its  reach,  though  a  tool  in  the  shape  of  a 
small  rake  be  placed  in  its  hand!  It  is  hungry  for 
the  fruit,  and  were  it  within  reach  of  its  own  arm, 
it  would  quickly  seize  it,  but  the  artificial  extension 
of  the  arm  by  means  of  the  rake,  it  has  not  the  wit 
to  avail  itself  of.  It  cannot  use  a  tool.  Its  keeper 
takes  hold  of  its  hand,  holding  the  rake,  and  shows 
it  how  to  get  the  fruit;  he  repeats  the  act  over  and 
over,  and  yet  the  monkey  left  to  itself  does  not  use 
the  rake.  Its  poor  little  noddle  is  too  small  or  too 
dark  to  take  in  even  so  trifling  a  conception  as  that; 
it  cannot  form  the  simplest  idea.  If  it  learns  finally 
to  use  the  rake,  it  does  it  in  an  automatic  way,  it 
does  not  see  why  it  should  use  the  rake,  it  does  not 
perceive  any  relation  between  its  hand  and  the 
rake  and  the  fruit.  Poor  thing!  one  thinks  of  its 
skull  as  pressing  down  close  upon  its  brain,  leaving 
not  the  least  room  for  ideas. 

When  an  animal  has  a  special  tool  in  its  organi- 
zation, its  whole  life  centres  in  and  revolves  about 
that  tool.  I  used  to  sit  on  a  balcony  in  southern 
California  day  after  day  and  see  the  native  brown 
thrasher  digging  up  the  lawn  or  the  garden  with 
that  long  hooked  beak  of  his.  He  uses  it  like  a 
pick-axe,  and  he  can  make  the  turf  and  soil  fly.  He 
does  nothing  else  while  he  is  in  my  sight.  "Give 
me  a  place  to  dig,  to  use  my  tool,"  he  seems  to  say 
130 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

each  moment.  Other  birds  are  scratchers  or  probers 
or  drillers,  and  they  are  under  the  tyranny  of  their 
organization  in  the  same  way.  The  hog  must  root, 
the  hawk  must  strike,  the  skimmer  must  skim.  It 
is  a  hampering  thing  to  have  one's  tools  and  weap- 
ons a  grown  part  of  one's  self,  but  the  advantage  is 
that  one  does  not  have  to  be  taught  how  to  use 
them. 

in 

Considering  the  gulf  that  separates  man  from  the 
lower  orders,  I  often  wonder  how,  for  instance,  we 
can  have  such  a  sense  of  companionship  with  a  dog. 
What  is  it  in  the  dog  that  so  appeals  to  us?  It  is 
probably  his  quick  responsiveness  to  our  attention. 
He  meets  us  halfway.  He  gives  caress  for  caress. 
Then  he  is  that  light-hearted,  irresponsible  vaga- 
bond that  so  many  of  us  half -consciously  long  to  be 
if  we  could  and  dared.  To  a  dog,  a  walk  is  the  best 
of  good  fortunes;  he  sniffs  adventure  at  every  turn, 
is  sure  something  thrilling  will  happen  around  the 
next  bend  in  the  path.  How  much  he  gets  out  of  it 
that  escapes  me!  —  the  excitement  of  all  the  dif- 
ferent odors  that  my  sense  is  too  dull  to  take  in. 
The  ground  to  him  is  written  over  with  the  scent 
of  game  of  some  sort,  the  air  is  full  of  the  lure  of 
wild  adventure.  How  human  he  is  at  such  times! 
he  is  out  on  a  lark.  In  his  spirit  of  hilarity  he  will 
chase  hens,  pigs,  sheep,  cows,  which  ordinarily  he 
131 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

would  give  no  heed  to,  just  as  boys  abroad  in  the 
fields  and  woods  will  commit  depredations  that  they 
would  be  ashamed  of  at  home. 

When  I  go  into  my  neighbor's  house  his  dog  of 
many  strains,  and  a  great  crony  of  mine,  becomes 
riotous  with  delight.  He  whines  with  joy,  hops 
upon  my  lap,  caresses  me,  and  then  springs  to  the 
door,  and  with  wagging  tail  and  speaking  looks 
and  actions  says,  " Come  on!  let 's  off."  I  open  the 
door  and  say,  "  Go,  if  you  want  to."  He  leaps  back 
upon  my  lap,  and  says,  "  No,  no,  not  without  you." 
Then  to  the  door  again  with  his  eloquent  panto- 
mime, till  I  finally  follow  him  forth  into  the  street. 
Then  he  tears  up  the  road  to  the  woods,  saying 
so  plainly,  "Better  one  hour  of  Slabsides  than  a 
week  of  humdrum  at  home."  At  such  times,  if  we 
chance  to  meet  his  master  or  mistress'  on  the  road, 
he  heeds  them  not,  and  is  absolutely  deaf  to  their 
calls. 

Well,  I  do  not  suppose  the  dog  is  in  our  line  of  de- 
scent, but  his  stem-form  must  join  ours  not  very  far 
back.  He  is  our  brother  at  not  very  many  removes, 
and  he  has  been  so  modified  and  humanized  by  his 
long  intercourse  with  our  kind,  stretching  no  doubt 
through  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years,  that  we 
are  near  to  him  and  he  is  near  to  us.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose, if  this  affectionate  intercourse  were  to  con- 
tinue any  number  of  ages  or  cycles  longer,  that  the 
dog  would  ever  be  any  more  developed  on  his  in- 
132 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

tellectual  side;  he  can  never  share  our  thoughts 
any  more  than  he  does  now.  He  has  not,  nor  have 
any  of  the  lower  orders,  that  which  Ray  Lankester 
aptly  calls  educability,  that  which  distinguishes 
man  from  all  other  creatures.  We  can  train  animals 
to  do  wonderful  things,  but  we  cannot  develop  in 
them,  or  graft  upon  them,  this  capacity  for  intellect- 
ual improvement,  to  grasp  and  wield  and  store  up 
ideas.  Man's  effect  upon  trained  animals  is  like  the 
effect  of  a  magnet  upon  a  piece  of  steel:  for  the 
moment  he  imparts  some  of  his  own  powers  to  them, 
and  holds  them  up  to  the  ideal  plane,  but  they  are 
not  permanently  intellectualized;  no  new  power  is 
developed  in  them;  and  they  soon  fall  back  to  their 
natural  state.  What  they  seem  to  acquire  is  not 
free  intelligence  that  they  can  apply  to  other  prob- 
lems. We  have  not  enlarged  their  minds,  but  have 
shaped  their  impulses  to  a  new  pattern.  They  are 
no  wiser,  but  they  are  more  apt.  They  do  a  human 
"stunt,"  but  they  do  not  think  human  thoughts. 

IV 

In  all  the  millions  of  years  that  life  has  been  upon 
the  globe,  working  its  wonders  and  its  transforma- 
tions, there  had  been  no  bit  of  matter  possessing  the 
power  that  the  human-brain  cortex  possesses  till 
man  was  developed.  The  reason  of  man,  no  matter 
how  slow  it  may  have  been  in  finding  itself,  was  a 
new  thing  in  the  world,  apparently  not  contem- 
133 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

plated  by  Nature's  plan,  as,  in  a  sense,  it  is  at  war 
with  that  plan,  and  a  reversal  of  it. 

Just  as  life  was  a  new  thing  in  the  inorganic 
world,  contravening  the  ordinary  laws  of  matter, 
expressing  a  kind  of  energy  not  derived  from  gravi- 
tation, making  chemical  and  physical  forces  its 
servants,  so  was  the  reason  of  man  a  new  thing, 
evolved,  of  course,  from  preexisting  conditions,  or 
animal  automatism,  but,  when  fairly  differentiated, 
a  new  mode  of  energy,  making  its  possessor  a  new 
kind  of  animal,  reversing  or  annulling  many  of  the 
laws  that  have  sway  in  the  rest  of  the  animal  king- 
dom, defeating  the  law  of  natural  selection  and  the 
survival  of  the  fittest,  rising  superior  to  climate  and 
to  geographical  conditions,  controlling  and  chang- 
ing his  environment,  making  servants  of  the  natural 
forces  about  him;  in  short,  fairly  facing  and  mas- 
tering Nature  in  a  way  no  other  animal  had  ever 
done. 

The  conditions  that  have  limited  the  increase  and 
spread  of  the  other  animals  have  been  in  a  measure 
triumphed  over  by  man.  The  British  scientist  I 
have  quoted  above,  Ray  Lankester,  has  described 
man  as  Nature's  rebel  —  he  defies  her  and  wrests 
her  territory  from  her.  "Where  Nature  says, 
'Die!'  man  says,  *I  will  live.'  According  to  the 
law  previously  in  universal  operation,  man  should 
have  been  limited  in  geographical  area,  killed  by 
extreme  cold  or  heat,  subject  to  starvation  if  one 
134 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

kind  of  diet  were  unobtainable,  and  should  have 
been  unable  to  increase  and  multiply,  just  as  are 
his  animal  relatives,  without  losing  his  specific 
structure  and  acquiring  new  physical  characters 
according  to  the  requirements  of  the  new  condi- 
tions into  which  he  strayed  —  should  have  perished 
except  on  the  condition  of  becoming  a  new  morpho- 
logical species." 

All  this  because  man  in  a  measure  rose  above  the 
state  of  automatism  of  the  lower  orders.  His  blind 
animal  intelligence  became  conscious  human  intel- 
ligence. It  was  a  metamorphosis,  as  strictly  so  as 
anything  in  Nature.  In  man,  for  the  first  time,  an 
animal  turned  round  and  looked  upon  itself  and 
considered  its  relations  to  the  forces  outside  of  self; 
in  other  words,  it  began  to  speculate  and  inquire 
and  ask  the  why  and  the  wherefore  of  things.  It 
paused  to  consider;  it  began  to  understand.  This 
self -awareness  distinguishes  man  from  all  other  ani- 
mals and  is  the  secret  of  his  enormous  development. 

The  mechanism  called  instinct  gave  place  slowly 
to  the  psychic  principle  of  reason  and  free  will. 
Trouble  began  with  the  new  gift.  This  was  the  real 
fall  of  man,  a  fall  from  a  state  of  animal  innocence 
and  non-self-consciousness  to  a  state  of  error  and 
struggle;  thenceforth  man  knew  good  from  evil, 
and  was  driven  out  of  the  paradise  of  animal  in- 
nocency.  Reason  opened  the  door  to  error,  and  in 
the  same  moment  it  opened  the  door  to  progress.  If 
135 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

failure  became  possible,  success  also  became  possi- 
ble. The  animal  with  his  instincts  was  doomed  to  a 
ceaseless  round  of  unprogressive  life;  man  with  his 
reason  had  open  to  him  the  possibility  of  progres- 
sive mastery  over  Nature.  His  race-mind  developed 
slowly,  from  period  to  period,  going  through  an  un- 
folding and  a  discipline  analogous  to  that  of  a  child 
from  infancy  to  manhood:  many  failures,  many 
sorrows,  much  struggle;  but  slowly  —  oh,  so  slowly! 
—  has  he  emerged  into  the  light  of  reason  in  which 
we  find  him  now.  The  price  the  lower  animals  pay 
for  unerring  instinct  is  the  loss  of  progress;  the  price 
man  pays  for  his  erring  reason  is  the  chance  of 
failure. 

Man's  mastery  over  Nature  has  made  him  the 
victim  of  scores  of  diseases  not  known  to  the  ani- 
mals below  him.  The  .artificial  conditions  with 
which  he  has  surrounded  himself,  his  material  com- 
forts, his  extra-natural  aids  and  shields,  have  opened 
the  way  to  the  invasion  of  his  kingdom  by  hosts  of 
bacterial  enemies  from  whose  mischievous  activi- 
ties the  lower  orders  are  exempt.  He  has  closed  his 
door  against  wind  and  cold,  and  thereby  opened  it 
to  a  ruthless  and  invisible  horde.  Nature  endows 
him  with  reason,  and  then  challenges  it  at  every 
turn.  She  puts  a  weapon  into  his  hand  that  she  has 
given  to  no  other  animal,  and  then  confronts  him 
with  foes  such  as  no  other  animal  knows.  He  pays 
for  his  privileges.  He  has  entered  the  lists  as  a  free 
136 


THE  ANIMAL  MIND 

lance,  and  he  must  and  does  take  his  chances.  For 
the  privileges  of  mastering  certain  of  Nature's  activ- 
ities, he  pays  in  a  host  of  natural  enemies.  For  the 
privilege  of  fire,  he  pays  in  the  hazard  of  fire;  for 
the  privilege  of  steam,  he  pays  in  the  risks  of  steam; 
for  knowing  how  to  overcome  and  use  gravity,  he 
pays  in  many  a  deadly  surrender  to  gravity.  He 
shakes  out  his  sail  to  the  wind  at  the  risk  of  the 
wind's  power  and  fury.  So  always  does  the  new 
gift  bring  new  danger  and  new  responsibilities. 

Man  is  endowed  and  blest  above  all  other  crea- 
tures, and  above  all  other  creatures  is  he  exposed  to 
defeat  and  death.  But  the  problem  is  not  as  broad 
as  it  is  long.  The  price  paid  does  not  always,  or 
commonly,  eat  up  all  the  profit.  There  has  been  a 
steady  gain.  Nature  exacts  her  fee,  but  the  service 
is  more  than  worth  it.  Otherwise  man  would  not 
be  here.  Unless  man  had  been  driven  out  of  Para- 
dise, what  would  he  have  come  to?  The  lower  orders 
are  still  in  the  Garden  of  Eden;  they  know  not  good 
from  evil;  but  man's  evolution  has  brought  him  out 
of  the  state  of  innocence  and  dependence,  and  he  is 
supreme  in  the  world. 


VII 
NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

HOW  surely  every  drop  of  water  that  sees  the 
light  in  the  most  remote  mountain  or  forest 
recesses  finds  its  way  to  the  sea,  if  not  in  some  way 
intercepted!  How  surely  the  springs  collect  into 
rivulets,  the  rivulets  into  brooks,  the  brooks  into 
creeks,  the  creeks  into  rivers,  and  the  rivers  sooner 
or  later  find  their  way  to  the  great  ocean  reservoir ! 
Dip  up  a  cup  of  water  from  the  little  mountain  rill 
and  ask  it  whither  it  is  going,  and  if  it  could  reply 
it  would  say:  "I  am  going  to  the  sea;  I  have  no 
choice  in  the  matter.  I  am  blind,  I  have  no  power 
of  self -direction,  but  my  way  is  appointed,  and  I 
know  that  sooner  or  later  I  shall  reach  the  great 
deep."  It  seems  as  if  some  engineer  had  planned  and 
shaped  the  face  of  the  landscape  and  of  the  conti- 
nent with  this  very  end  in  view.  But  the  engineer 
was  the  water  itself.  Water  flows  downhill;  that 
settles  it.  It  is  all  the  inevitable  result  of  natural 
law.  Neither  the  lives  of  men  nor  those  of  the 
lower  animals  escape  the  action  of  similar  universal 
laws;  especially  are  the  lower  animals  under  their 
dominion. 

In  the  first  place,  the  activities  of  all  creatures 
138 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

are  largely  determined  by  their  organization.  This 
appoints  the  bird  to  fly,  the  fish  to  swim,  the  snake 
to  glide,  and  man  to  walk  and  stand  erect.  It  ap- 
points the  woodpecker  to  bore  or  drill  the  trees, 
the  snipe  to  probe  the  mud,  this  kind  to  catch 
insects,  that  one  to  catch  fish,  this  one  to  live  on 
seeds  or  fruit,  the  other  to  prey  upon  game,  and 
so  on. 

Now,  the  so-called  intelligence  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals is  largely  like  that  of  the  rills  that  find  their 
way  to  the  sea,  or  of  the  seeds  of  the  plants  that 
find  their  way  to  their  proper  habitat.  Marsh  plants 
find  their  way  to  the  marshes,  hill  plants  find  their 
way  to  the  hills.  The  spores  of  the  black  knot  seem 
to  hunt  out  every  plum-tree  in  the  land.  The  rats 
and  the  mice  find  their  way  to  your  new  house  or 
new  barn,  because  they  are  constantly  on  the  search 
for  new  fields.  The  squirrels  find  the  acorn-grove 
and  the  birds  the  cherry-trees  for  the  same  reason. 
Their  necessities  for  food  send  them  in  all  directions 
till  they  hit  the  right  spots. 

Nature  plays  the  principal  part  in  the  lives  of  all 
creatures,  man  included,  supplying  motives,  im- 
pulses, opportunities,  the  guidance  of  organization, 
the  inheritance  of  instinct,  the  stimulus  or  the  check 
of  environment,  the  bent  of  race,  family,  tempera- 
ment, the  lure  of  plenty,  the  bar  of  scarcity,  the 
potency  of  soil,  climate,  geography.  The  birds 
come  north  when  a  warm  wave  brings  them;  the 
139 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

shad  run  up  the  rivers  when  the  south  wind  blows 
them  up;  the  hibernating  animals  come  out  of  their 
retreats  when  the  warmth  awakes  them. 

The  play  of  will  and  conscious  intelligence  inside 
the  limitations  of  Nature  is  considerable  in  man, 
very  little  in  the  lower  animals. 

The  bird  builds  a  nest,  not  because  it  thinks  nest, 
and  plans  nest,  and  sees  the  end  from  the  beginning, 
as  man  does  when  he  builds  a  house,  but  because  the 
great  Mother  Nature  in  which  it  is  embosomed 
and  which  is  active  in  the  bird  thinks  nest  for  it  — 
and  impels  it  to  the  construction.  The  bird  is  the 
instrument  of  the  propagating  impulse  which  per- 
vades Nature,  as  is  man  himself  up  to  the  point 
where  his  own  individual  judgment  and  volition 
come  into  play,  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  have 
only  a  narrow  field  to  work  in.  The  beaver  in  build- 
ing its  dam  works  as  blindly,  that  is  as  inevitably 
and  unconsciously  —  as  free  from  individual  initia- 
tive —  as  it  does  in  developing  its  chisel-like  teeth 
or  its  broad  trowel-like  tail.  This  inherent  uncon- 
scious intelligence  we  call  instinct,  a  faculty  which 
is  constant  in  its  operation,  and  though  not  inerrant, 
is  free  from  the  vacillations  and  failures  of  human 
reason.  It  is  analogous  to  that  something  in  the 
plants  which  determines  their  forms,  the  color  of 
their  flowers,  and  their  times  and  seasons.  Instinct 
is  sometimes  abortive;  so  do  plants  sometimes  fail 
of  their  colors  and  fruit. 

140 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

All  the  larger  movements  of  humanity  are  proba- 
bly as  much  the  result  of  the  operation  of  natural 
law  as  are  the  movements  of  the  animals.  A  man 
feels  free  to  choose  this  or  that,  to  emigrate  or  stay 
at  home,  to  undertake  this  or  that  enterprise  or  to 
let  it  alone;  yet  that  which  finally  determines  his 
course,  influences  his  will,  is  quite  beyond  the  reach 
of  his  will  or  his  consciousness.  He  does  certain 
things  because  he  is  of  a  certain  race  and  family, 
because  he  lives  in  a  certain  age  and  country,  be- 
cause his  hair  is  red  or  black,  because  his  health  is 
good  or  bad.  He  is  a  Democrat  or  a  Republican 
because  his  father  was  so  before  him.  He  is  skeptical 
because  he  lives  in  a  skeptical  age;  he  is  a  fanatic 
because  he  is  surrounded  by  fanatics;  he  wears  a 
derby  hat  because  all  his  neighbors  do;  he  gesticu- 
lates because  he  is  a  Frenchman;  he  growls  because 
he  is  an  Englishman;  he  brags  because  he  is  an 
American.  The  many  influences  that  work  over  his 
head  and  under  his  feet,  and  that  stream  upon  him 
from  all  sides,  are  all  unknown  to  him. 

The  animals  are  all  so  wise  in  their  own  sphere, 
the  sphere  of  instinct,  in  doing  the  things  that  they 
have  to  do  in  order  to  survive  and  perpetuate  the 
species,  that  one  is  always  astonished  at  their  stupid- 
ity outside  that  sphere  when  a  new  problem  pre- 
sents itself;  as  when  a  robin  and  a  phoebe  each  built 
three  or  four  nests  on  a  timber  under  a  porch,  be- 
cause there  were  three  or  four  places  in  a  row  just 
141 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

alike,  and  the  bird  could  not  distinguish  between 
them  or  concentrate  herself  upon  one  spot.  The 
nesting  instinct  in  each  case  was  so  strong  that  the 
bird  had  not  a  particle  of  sense  apart  from  it.  Some- 
thing impelled  it  to  build,  build,  and  it  put  down 
its  load  of  mortar  or  straws  at  whichever  point  it 
chanced  to  hit.  It  was  a  hit-or-miss  game  surely. 
Such  incidents  give  us  a  glimpse  of  how  absolutely 
under  the  dominion  of  natural  impulses  animal  life 
is,  especially  at  certain  times.  The  breeding  instinct 
with  nearly  all  creatures  becomes  a  kind  of  intoxica- 
tion, a  frenzy,  and  if  the  bird,  with  all  its  cleverness, 
is  ever  a  fool,  it  is  a  fool  then.  On  different  occasions 
I  have  seen  a  robin,  a  bluebird,  and  a  blue  jay,  in 
nesting-time,  each  dashing  itself  against  a  window 
in  which  it  saw  the  reflection  of  its  own  image,  think- 
ing it  was  demolishing  or  just  going  to  demolish  a 
rival.  Hour  after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  the  blood- 
less farce  went  on,  till  the  bird  finally  desisted, 
apparently  not  because  it  saw  it  was  the  dupe  of 
its  own  jealousy,  but  from  sheer  exhaustion.  How 
like  blind  inanimate  Nature  such  things  are!  like 
the  winds  and  the  waves  in  their  unintelligent  fury. 
An  animal  never  sees  through  appearances;  things 
are  what  they  seem  to  him,  and  a  piece  of  paper  or 
an  old  hat  by  the  roadside  is  a  fearsome  thing  to  a 
nervous  horse.  Nature  has  heaped  the  measure  of 
their  caution  and  fear,  that  they  may  be  sure  to 
escape  their  real  enemies,  and  she  has  heaped  the 
142 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

measure  of  their  propagating  instincts  to   make 
sure  that  the  species  do  not  fail. 

How  clever,  too,  they  are  about  their  food !  They 
have  to  be  or  else  starve.  No  doubt  many  of  them 
have  starved  in  the  past,  and  only  the  clever  ones 
survived  and  so  continued  the  species.  When  one 
sees  the  birds  in  spring  scouring  about  for  food 
where  apparently  there  is  no  food,  or  thinks  of  the 
mice  and  squirrels  and  foxes  in  the  barren,  desolate, 
snow-choked  woods,  or  of  the  thousands  of  crows  in 
winter  going  to  and  fro  night  and  morning  in  quest 
of  forage,  one  realizes  how  acute  and  active  and 
discerning  they  must  become  to  survive  at  all. 
Just  how  the  robin  knows  the  precise  spot  in  the 
turf  on  the  lawn  to  dig  in  order  to  strike  a  fat  grub, 
I  do  not  know,  but  he  rarely  fails.  I  am  sure  that  I 
could  not  pick  out  the  spots.  But  my  dinner  is  not 
contingent  upon  that  kind  of  acuteness;  if  it  were, 
no  doubt  I  could  quickly  learn  the  secret,  too.  The 
red  squirrel,  no  doubt,  learned  that  the  sap  of  the 
maple  was  sweet  long  before  the  Indian  or  white 
man  did.  How  surely  he  finds  out  in  May  when  the 
seeds  of  the  elm-tree  will  afford  him  a  tiny  morsel ! 
He  is  hard-pressed  for  food  at  this  time  and  will 
take  up  with  very  short  pickings.  I  saw  one  a  few 
moments  ago  getting  his  breakfast  in  an  elm  near 
my  cabin.  How  eager  and  hungry  he  appeared  to 
be,  how  rapidly  he  chipped  up  or  opened  the  flake- 
like  samaras  of  the  tree  and  devoured  the  minute 
143 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

germ  which  they  held !  He  would  hold  to  a  branch 
by  his  hind  feet,  and  reach  far  down  to  the  ends  of 
the  pendant  twigs  for  the  clusters  of  fruit.  A  squir- 
rel's hind  feet  are  especially  adapted  for  hanging  in 
this  way.  Mr.  Hornaday  says  the  pika,  or  little  chief 
hare,  in  the  Canadian  Rockies  cuts  and  gathers  va- 
rious grasses  and  plant-stalks,  and  cures  them  in  the 
sun  beside  the  entrance  to  its  den,  and  then  stores 
them  up  for  winter  use.  He  says  that  if,  during 
the  day,  the  shadow  of  a  rock  falls  upon  the  curing 
hay,  the  pika  moves  it  out  into  the  sun  again. 
Another  authority  says  that  it  will  also  make  haste 
to  house  its  hay  if  a  shower  threatens.  These  last 
acts  seem  almost  incredible.  I  should  like  to  have  a 
chance  to  verify  them.  In  any  case  we  see  in  the 
habits  of  this  creature  another  proof  that  an  ani- 
mal will  and  can  learn  to  live,  and  in  the  struggle 
may  develop  an  instinct  that  closely  simulates 
human  intelligence.  Simulates,  I  say;  we  can  hardly 
call  it  the  same,  though  it  reaches  the  same  end  by 
the  same  means.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the 
individual  pika  knows  the  value  of  curing  grass  be- 
fore storing  it  away,  as  we  know  it  from  experience 
and  observation,  or  that  it  takes  any  thought  about 
the  matter.  The  race  of  pikas  knows  it  as  an  in- 
herited trait.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  Nature  and  not  of 
the  individual  pika.  I  suppose  the  habits  of  the 
wild  creatures  generally  in  laying  up  their  winter 
stores  are  as  far  removed  from  conscious  thought  and 
144 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

purpose  as  is  the  storing-up  of  fat  in  our  bodies  an 
unconscious  process.  Life  in  all  its  forms  adapts  it- 
self to  its  conditions;  else  it  would  not  be  life;  it 
would  cease.  Only  in  man  is  this  adaptation  ever  a 
matter  of  thought  and  calculation,  and  in  him  only 
in  a  minor  degree.  The  climate,  the  geography,  the 
geology,  the  race,  the  age,  all  play  a  part  in  mould- 
ing and  making  him. 

Over  all  and  under  all  and  through  all  is  the  uni- 
versal intelligence,  the  cosmic  mind.  It  is  that  which 
determines  and  shapes,  humanly  speaking,  all  the 
myriad  forms  of  the  universe,  organic  and  inorganic. 
Only  in  the  higher  forms  of  animal  life  is  the  cosmic 
mind  supplemented  by  conscious,  individual  intelli- 
gence. There  are  occasional  gleams  of  this  intelli- 
gence in  the  lives  of  the  lower  animals,  but  not  till 
we  reach  man  does  the  spark  become  a  flame.  Man's 
wit  differs  from  the  wit  of  universal  Nature  in  that 
it  plays  inside  the  latter  and  has  a  certain  mastery 
over  it  and  works  to  partial  and  personal  ends.  We 
call  the  cosmic  mind  blind;  it  is  rather  impersonal 
and  indirect.  All  ends  and  all  means  are  its,  and  it 
fails  of  no  end  because  it  aims  at  none.  How  can  a 
circle  have  an  end?  It  returns  forever  into  itself. 
Suns  and  systems  and  races  and  men  are  but  the 
accidents,  so  to  speak,  of  its  universal  activity. 
Man  sees  the  end  of  his  efforts  because  they  are 
limited  to  his  personal  wants  and  aspirations.  But 
Nature's  purpose  embraces  all.  Her  clock  is  not 
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THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

wound  up  for  a  day,  or  a  month,  or  a  year.  It  was 
never  wound  up,  and  it  will  never  run  down,  and  it 
strikes  only  the  hours  of  eternity.  But  here  I  am  in 
deep  waters,  quite  over  my  head.  Follow  any  of 
these  little  rills  of  natural  history  and  they  will  lead 
you  sooner  or  later  to  larger  questions  and  thence 
to  the  boundless  sea. 

The  adaptiveness  of  animal  life,  and  one  may  say 
of  vegetable  life  also,  is  a  subject  of  deep  interest. 

In  the  dry  streamless  valleys  on  Cape  Verde 
Islands,  Darwin  saw  a  kingfisher  that  lived  on  grass- 
hoppers and  lizards,  diving  for  them  in  the  true 
kingfisher  fashion.  Doubtless  our  own  kingfisher, 
under  the  force  of  circumstances,  might  adapt  him- 
self to  such  a  mode  of  life. 

The  beasts  and  birds  that  are  most  adaptive  in 
the  matter  of  food  thrive  best.  If  the  quail  could 
learn  to  subsist  upon  tree-buds  as  does  the  grouse, 
it  would  not  perish  as  it  now  does  during  our 
winters  of  deep  snow.  What  a  success  the  crow 
is!  And  to  what  does  he  owe  it  more  than  to  his 
adaptiveness  in  regard  to  food?  Grain,  nuts,  worms, 
insects,  fish,  frogs,  eggs,  grubs,  mice,  and  things 
still  more  unsavory  —  each  and  all  help  him  through 
the  season.  The  hawks  are  restricted  to  flesh  alone, 
hence  their  comparatively  limited  numbers. 

I  suppose  we  always  attribute  much  more  thought 
and  purpose  to  the  animals  than  they  are  capable 
of.  We  do  not  realize  what  automatons  they  are. 
146 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

Much  of  their  activity  is  the  result  of  their  organi- 
zation, and  very  little  the  result  of  free  choice,  as 
with  man,  —  though  in  the  case  of  man  what  he 
calls  his  "free  choice"  is  no  doubt  largely  deter- 
mined by  forces  and  conditions  of  which  he  is  not 
conscious. 

I  notice  that  the  nests  of  the  orioles  are  longest 
and  deepest  where  they  are  the  most  pendant,  that 
they  are  deeper  and  more  pocket-like  on  the  willows 
and  elms  than  on  the  oaks  and  hickories,  and  that 
they  are  the  shallowest  of  all  on  stiff  young  maples 
where  they  are  usually  placed  near  the  stem  of  the 
tree.  In  such  cases  they  are  shallow  and  cuplike. 
The  longest  nests  I  see  near  me  are  on  the  weeping 
willows.  Now  if  this  observation  holds  true,  the 
natural  inference  would  be  that  the  birds  consid- 
ered the  matter,  and  that  they  knew  that  the  more 
pendant  the  nest  the  greater  the  danger  to  eggs  and 
young  during  high  winds;  therefore,  in  certain  situa- 
tions they  build  deeper  than  in  others.  But  I  can- 
not make  myself  believe  that  the  birds  take  any 
thought  about  the  matter  at  all.  The  simplest  ex- 
planation of  their  course  seems  to  me  to  be  this :  In 
the  act  of  building  their  nests  they  would  be  swayed 
more  or  less  by  the  winds  —  more  upon  the  willows 
and  elms  than  upon  trees  of  stiffer  branches  like 
oaks  and  maples.  This  greater  swaying  would  stim- 
ulate them  to  build  deeper  nests;  it  would  be  the 
condition  that  would  bring  their  pendant-nest  in- 
147 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

stinct  into  greater  activity.  A  still  simpler  explana- 
tion is  the  suggestion  that  this  instinct  is  feebler  in 
some  birds  than  in  others,  and  is  feeblest  of  all  in 
those  birds  that  build  cup-shaped  or  basket-shaped 
nests  on  stiff  young  maples  newly  planted  by  the 
roadside.  We  are  not  to  ascribe  to  an  animal  a 
process  of  reasoning  so  long  as  there  is  a  simpler 
explanation  of  its  conduct. 

When  we  have  an  early  spring  we  plant  and  sow 
early,  and  vice  versa.  We  seem  to  think  that  the 
birds  choose  to  act  similarly,  and  to  nest  early  or 
late  as  their  judgment  as  to  the  weather  prompts. 
But  they  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  A  warm 
wave  brings  them,  and  a  cold  wave  retards  them, 
as  inevitably  as  it  does  vegetation.  The  warmth 
stimulates  them  to  nest-building,  for  the  reason  that 
it  increases  their  food-supply;  the  more  warmth  the 
more  food,  and  the  more  food,  the  more  rapidly 
the  egg  develops  in  the  mother  bird.  Heat  hastens 
the  ripening  of  the  egg  as  surely  as  it  hastens  the 
ripening  of  fruit,  and  cold  retards  it  to  the  same 
extent.  In  cold,  backward  springs  I  note  that  the 
robin  lays  only  two  or  three  eggs  in  the  first  nest; 
in  warm  seasons  she  lays  four  or  five. 

Pluck  off  the  leaves  of  a  tree  in  the  early  season 
and  new  leaves  will  form;  sometimes  new  blossoms 
will  come  a  second  time.  Rob  a  bird  of  her  eggs  and 
she  will  lay  another  clutch,  and  still  another,  till  the 
season  is  past.  I  suppose  that  there  is  no  more  of 
148 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

deliberate  purpose  in  the  one  case  than  in  the  other. 
A  wild  plant's  one  thought,  one  ambition,  is  to 
mature  its  seed.  When  it  starts  in  the  spring  it  has 
the  whole  season  before  it,  and  it  runs  the  stalk  up 
to  its  full  stature;  but  if  it  gets  a  late  start  its  ab- 
breviated stalk  seems  like  an  act  of  conscious 
intelligence;  it  must  hasten  with  its  seed  before  the 
season  passes.  The  second  or  third  nest  of  a  bird  in 
spring  is  usually  a  much  more  hasty  affair  than  the 
first.  The  time  is  precious,  and  the  young  must  not 
get  too  late  a  start  in  life. 

I  fancy  that  to  all  human  beings  the  spring  gives 
an  impulse  toward  new  fields,  new  activities,  that 
is  quite  independent  of  any  will  or  purpose  of  their 
own.  We  are  all  children  of  one  mother  after  all  and 
are  tied  to  her  apron-strings.  The  pulse  of  the  life 
of  the  globe  is  felt  alike  in  all  of  us,  feeble  or  strong. 
Our  power  of  will,  of  purpose,  carries  but  a  little 
way  against  the  tendencies  of  race,  of  climate,  of 
the  age,  or  the  tides  of  the  seasons. 

I  have  often  asked  myself  if  we  should  count  it  an 
act  of  intelligent  foresight  in  the  birds  when  they 
build  their  nests  near  our  houses  and  roadways,  ap- 
parently seeking  the  protection  from  their  enemies 
which  such  places  are  supposed  to  afford.  I  have 
concluded  that  the  idea  of  protection  does  not  in- 
fluence them  any  more  than  it  does  the  rats  and  the 
mice  that  infest  our  houses,  or  the  toads  that  lurk 
under  our  porch  floors.  How  should  a  robin,  or  a 
149 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

phoebe,  or  a  bluebird,  or  any  other  bird,  know  that 
its  enemies  are  less  bold  than  itself  and  dare  not 
venture  where  it  ventures?  These  birds  are  all 
more  or  less  afraid  of  man  and  tolerate  his  presence 
under  protest,  and  it  is  probably  true  that  the 
dangers  to  which  they  are  exposed  in  nesting  neai 
us,  from  cats,  rats,  mice,  and  boys,  are  as  great  or 
greater  than  they  would  be  from  wild  enemies  in  re- 
mote fields  and  woods.  Birds  seek  the  vicinity  of  man 
because  food  in  the  way  of  insects,  seeds,  and  fruits 
is  more  abundant,  and  because  the  shelter  which 
some  of  them  seek  is  better  and  more  extensive.  I 
think  the  oriole  is  attracted  by  the  abundance  of 
nesting  material  —  strings  and  horsehairs;  and  the 
swallows  for  the  same  reason  —  mud  and  feathers. 
All  birds  instinctively  seek  to  hide  their  nests,  and 
even  porches  and  sheds  and  bridges  afford  cover  and 
hiding  for  the  robins  and  phoebes,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  better  foraging  upon  the  lanes  and  in  the 
garden  and  the  cherry-trees  for  the  robins,  and  in 
the  air  about  the  buildings  for  the  phcebes.  The 
kingbird  likes  to  be  near  the  beehives,  for  he  is  fond 
of  the  drones;  and  the  chippy  comes  to  the  rose- 
bush, or  the  lilac-bush,  or  the  near  apple-tree,  be- 
cause she  likes  crumbs  from  the  table  and  the  meal 
the  chickens  leave.  I  notice  that  the  birds  build  in 
or  about  deserted  houses  nearly  as  freely  as  about 
those  that  are  occupied.  All  birds  that  build  in 
holes  and  cavities  can  be  attracted  by  putting  up 
150 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

suitable  boxes  and  houses  for  them  to  nest  in.  In 
this  way  you  can  attract  bluebirds,  house  wrens, 
and  purple  martins. 

In  certain  respects  the  birds  are  much  like  the 
weeds.  Certain  weeds  follow  our  footsteps  and 
thrive  best  near  us;  they  fatten  on  our  labor.  So  do 
certain  species  of  birds  follow  us,  not  for  protection 
but  for  better  shelter  and  better  fare.  Surely  the 
English  sparrow  does  not  dog  the  footsteps  of  man 
for  any  fancied  protection.  The  wood  thrush  as  I 
know  it  seems  to  love  civilization;  he  doubtless 
finds  his  favorite  food  more  abundant  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  our  dwellings.  His  cousins,  the  hermit  and 
veery  thrushes,  prefer  the  dense,  remote  woods,  and 
doubtless  for  the  same  reason.  The  wood  thrush's 
brighter  coat  seems  more  in  keeping  with  the  open 
glades  and  groves  than  with  the  denser  woods. 

The  paramount  question  with  bird  and  beast,  as 
with  us,  is  always  the  question  of  well-being.  We 
consider  the  matter,  we  weigh  the  pros  and  cons, 
and  choose  our  course,  as  we  think,  according  to 
reason.  But  the  animals  are  prompted  and  guided 
by  outward  conditions,  —  the  season,  the  food- 
supply,  their  nesting  needs,  and  so  forth.  Of  course 
primitive  man  is  largely  influenced  by  the  same  con- 
siderations; his  necessities  determine  his  course. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  how  certain  insects  be- 
have like  natural  forces.  Watch  the  growth  of  the 
paper  nest  of  the  hornet;  see  it  envelop  the  obstacles 
151 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

in  its  way,  —  leaves  and  twigs,  —  precisely  as  a 
growing  tree  might,  or  as  flowing  water  does.  I  saw 
two  nests  of  yellow- jackets  in  the  side  of  a  house, 
built  in  the  space  between  the  siding  and  the  inner 
wall;  and  these  nests  flowed  out  of  the  cracks  and 
nail-holes  in  the  clapboards  in  thin  sheets,  just  as 
any  liquid  would  have  done.  Narrow  gray  films 
were  pushing  out  here  and  there,  over  a  space  of 
several  square  feet.  The  hornets  had  filled  the  space 
inside  with  their  nest  and  had  reached  the  limit, 
but  they  did  not  know  it,  and  kept  on  building  as 
long  as  the  season  prompted. 

The  strongest  instinct  in  the  carnivora  is  the  kill- 
ing instinct,  and  when  this  instinct  is  fully  aroused 
does  the  animal  know  what  it  is  doing?  When  a 
weasel  or  a  wildcat  gets  into  your  hen-roost,  it 
rarely  stops  till  every  chicken  is  killed,  though  it 
may  not  devour  one  of  them.  We  say  it  kills  and 
kills  to  satisfy  its  lust  for  blood,  as  the  inebriate 
drinks  and  drinks  to  satisfy  his  abnormal  appetite 
for  alcohol.  But  it  is  not  like  that.  The  weasel  or 
the  mink  kills  all  within  its  reach  in  obedience  to  its 
normal  killing  instinct.  It  has  no  choice  in  the  mat- 
ter. Appetite  starts  the  machine  and  then  it  keeps 
on  and  on  like  a  fire.  Last  winter  a  wildcat,  starved 
to  mere  skin  and  bones,  was  found  at  midday  in  the 
henhouse  of  one  of  my  neighbors.  It  had  killed  over 
thirty  hens  and  kept  on  with  the  slaughter  while  the 
man  ran  to  the  house  for  his  gun.  The  strange  part 
152 


NATURE  AND  ANIMAL  LIFE 

of  the  incident  is  that  it  had  not  eaten  one  of  the 
fowls  or  any  part  of  one  that  it  had  killed.  The  ex- 
planation doubtless  is  that  its  killing  instinct  was 
so  overstimulated  by  its  great  hunger  that  the  cat 
could  do  nothing  but  kill  as  long  as  there  was  a 
live  fowl  left.  There  was  no  such  word  as  enough  in 
its  vocabulary.  It  had  no  perception  of  the  relation 
between  its  appetite  and  any  given  quantity.  It 
must  kill  and  kill  and  kill  again.  After  it  had  cleared 
the  roost,  if  left  alone,  it  would  doubtless  have 
fallen  to  and  gorged  itself.  Wolves  act  in  a  similar 
way  with  a  flock  of  sheep,  killing  vastly  more  than 
they  can  eat.  I  do  not  look  upon  this  excess  as  the 
result  of  the  wild  spirit  of  debauch,  in  the  human 
sense,  but  as  the  result  of  blind  instinct  acting  auto- 
matically. The  rodents  that  hoard  nuts  illustrate 
the  same  tendency.  A  tame  chipmunk,  fed  to  reple- 
tion, will  hoard  all  the  nuts  you  have  a  mind  to  give 
him,  and  go  through  the  pantomime  of  covering 
them  up  on  the  bare  floor  of  an  empty  room.  Dallas 
Lore  Sharp  says  a  red  squirrel  will  hoard  nuts  in  its 
own  cage  from  the  stores  you  give  it,  and  that  if  a 
white-footed  mouse  were  confined  in  a  room  with  a 
peck  of  hickory -nuts,  it  would  make  little  piles  of 
the  nuts  about  the  room. 

We  marvel  at  what  we  call  the  wisdom  of  the 

hive  bee,  yet  there  is  one  thing  she  never  learns 

from  experience,  and  that  is,  that  she  is  storing  up 

honey  for  the  use  of  man.  She  could  not  learn  this, 

153 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

because  such  knowledge  is  not  necessary  to  her  own 
well-being.  Neither  does  she  ever  know  when  she 
has  enough  to  carry  her  through  the  winter.  This 
knowledge,  again,  is  not  important.  Gather  and 
store  honey  as  long  as  there  is  any  to  be  had,  is  her 
motto,  and  in  that  rule  she  is  safe. 


VIII 
THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

IF  I  were  to  give  a  detailed  account  of  the  tide  of 
wild  life  that  ebbs  and  flows,  winter  and  sum- 
mer, about  my  cabin  door,  of  the  shrike  I  saw  a  few 
days  ago  hunting  a  little  brown  creeper  about  the 
trunk  of  the  maple-tree  in  front  of  my  window,  and 
especially  of  the  downy  woodpecker  that  has  been 
excavating  a  chamber  for  his  winter-quarters  in  the 
top  of  a  chestnut  post  in  the  vineyard  near  my 
study,  hammering  away  at  it  day  after  day  like  a 
carpenter  building  a  house,  and  returning  there  at 
night  after  his  day's  work  and  his  foraging  for  sup- 
per are  over  —  if  I  were  to  give  a  detailed  account 
of  these  things  and  others,  many  of  the  incidents 
would  show  so  much  of  what  we  in  ourselves  call 
rational  intelligence  that  we  should  be  tempted  to 
ascribe  the  same  powers  or  faculties  to  these  wild 
neighbors  of  mine.  Intelligence  we  may  call  it  with- 
out falling  into  any  very  serious  anthropomor- 
phism —  the  kind  of  intelligence  that  pervades 
all  nature,  and  which  is  seen  in  the  vegetable  as 
well  as  in  the  animal  world,  but  which  differs  rad- 
ically, in  its  mode  of  working,  from  rational  human 
intelligence. 

155 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

A  more  specific  name  for  it,  and  a  better  one,  I 
think,  and  for  all  similar  behavior  on  the  part  of 
bird  and  beast,  is  the  ancient  and  honorable  term 
"instinct"  —  a  term  that  the  "new  psychology" 
is  beginning  to  shy  at  or  openly  to  repudiate,  but 
which  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  get  along  without. 

Take  the  case  of  the  woodpecker  and  his  retreat. 
It  may  well  be  the  first  cavity  of  the  kind  the  bird 
has  ever  made  or  occupied,  but  its  forebears  have 
made  and  used  such  cavities  for  untold  generations, 
and  Downy  unconsciously  remembers  it  all.  The 
whole  proceeding  is  very  human,  very  like  what  a 
person  might  do  under  certain  circumstances  — 
build  a  hut  at  the  approach  of  winter,  or  take  pos- 
session of  one  already  built,  enlarging  and  changing 
it  to  suit  his  notions,  and  be  on  the  alert  for  his  ene- 
mies while  thus  engaged.  Yet  we  do  not,  because  of 
this,  ascribe  reason  to  the  woodpecker,  or  conscious 
forethought;  we  call  it  instinct,  inherited  memory. 
In  a  man  these  and  similar  acts  are  attended  with 
more  or  less  reflection  and  conscious  exercise  of 
will,  with,  no  doubt,  much  instinctive  or  inherited 
impulse. 

Now  the  new  laboratory  psychology  comes  along 
and  says  that  the  key  to  animal  behavior  is  neither 
reason  nor  instinct,  but  habit  or  experience.  I  have 
in  mind  especially  two  recent  papers  in  one  of  the 
popular  magazines,1  in  which  the  writer  urges  that 

1  See  McClure's  Magazine  for  June  and  August,  1909.     « 
156 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

the  lower  animals  not  only  do  not  reason,  —  which 
is  just  what  I  have  been  preaching  myself,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  for  some  years  past,  —  but  that, 
with  adult  animals  of  the  more  intelligent  species, 
pure  instinct,  so  far  from  being  a  controlling  factor 
in  the  creature's  life,  hardly  has  to  be  reckoned 
with  at  all  —  which  is  just  the  opposite  of  what  I 
have  been  preaching.  The  animal,  our  writer  urges, 
"forms  habits  precisely  as  we  do,  and,  precisely 
like  ourselves,  stores  up,  as  habits,  many  common 
experiences  of  life."  My  own  contention  is  that  the 
wild  animals  act  mainly  from  inherited  habits  or 
instinct,  and  that  their  acquired  habits,  "so  far 
from  being  a  controlling  factor  in  the  creature's 
life,  hardly  have  to  be  reckoned  with  at  all." 

How  the  writer  explains  the  conduct  of  animals 
that  have  had  no  chance  to  store  up  experiences  and 
form  habits  —  the  bird  building  its  first  nest,  the 
hen  with  her  first  brood  of  chickens  speaking  a 
language  she  never  before  spoke,  and  her  young 
understanding  a  language  they  never  before  heard, 
the  heifer  hiding  her  first  calf  in  the  bush,  the 
ground-bird  decoying  you  away  from  her  first  nest 
by  fluttering  over  the  ground  as  if  half-disabled, 
the  puppy  burying  its  first  bone,  perhaps  on  the 
carpet  or  the  kitchen  floor,  the  chipmunk  or  the 
wood-mouse  laying  up  its  first  store  of  nuts,  and  a 
score  of  other  primary  acts  of  the  animals,  which 
they  never  could  have  learned  as  we  learn,  and 
157 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

which  they  do  offhand  the  first  time  the  occasion 
arises  —  how  the  writer  explains  all  these  things,  I 
say,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know. 

These  instincts  or  native  impulses,  as  they  are 
passed  along  down  the  line  of  animal  descent,  are 
slightly  modified  now  and  then,  but  remain  practi- 
cally the  same  from  generation  to  generation.  The 
cliff  swallows  have  built  their  nests  of  mud  —  how 
long?  The  chimney  swifts  have  built  theirs  of  twigs 
—  how  long?  The  brooding  grouse,  when  started 
from  her  nest,  has  feigned  lameness  and  paralysis  — 
how  long?  The  beaver  has  been  building  its  dam  of 
sticks  and  mud  —  how  long? 

The  word  "instinct"  is  of  metaphysical  rather 
than  of  scientific  origin,  but  it  means  so  much  more 
than  reaction  or  tropism  that  we  cannot  dispense 
with  it.  It  marks  off  the  animal  world  from  the 
human  almost  as  distinctly  as  the  animal  is  marked 
off  from  the  vegetable.  It  covers  all  the  animal  be- 
havior that  is  independent  of  experience,  and  that 
an  animal  does  perfectly  when  the  first  occasion  for 
it  arises.  In  the  orders  immediately  below  man  nine 
tenths  of  the  actions  of  the  animals  are  the  result  of 
involuntary  inherited  impulse.  The  other  tenth 
may  be  the  result  of  experience  or  acquired  habit. 

A  large  fraction  of  our  lives  also  is  the  result  of 

inborn  inherited  impulses  or  tendencies,  but  these 

are  constantly  checked  and  controlled  by  reason 

and  experience.  An  animal  never  checks  its  natural 

158 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

impulse  unless  we  train  it  to  do  so  or  drill  it  into 
new  habits.  A  man  has  an  impulse  to  steal  or  to 
murder,  to  over-eat  or  to  run  away  from  danger; 
but  he  checks  the  impulse,  because  he  is  a  man  and 
not  a  dog. 

Each  animal  species  inherits  an  organization  that 
determines  the  kind  of  life  it  shall  live,  how  it  shall 
meet  its  enemies,  how  get  its  food  and  what  that 
food  shall  be,  its  habitat,  and  the  like,  and  it  in- 
herits the  instincts  that  go  with  the  organization. 
The  porcupine  knows  how  to  use  its  quills,  the 
skunk  its  essence,  the  hawk  its  talons,  the  cuttle- 
fish its  ink,  without  previous  experience  or  instruc- 
tion —  that  is,  instinctively.  The  mole  takes  to  the 
ground  and  is  lost  on  the  surface.  His  organization 
makes  him  a  prisoner  of  the  soil.  Call  his  behavior 
instinctive  or  a  tropism  or  what  you  will,  it  is  innate, 
and  is  not  a  habit  acquired  by  the  individual  mole, 
but  by  the  race  of  moles. 

Man's  organization  is  not  specialized  in  any- 
thing like  the  same  degree  as  that  of  his  animal  kin. 
He  inherits  no  weapons,  either  of  offense  or  defense; 
he  is  confined  to  no  habitat  or  clime;  he  is  restricted 
to  no  special  food.  He  is  a  tool-maker  and  inventor, 
and  arms  and  equips  himself  with  a  thousand  ex- 
ternal things  and  forces.  He  is  a  learner,  an  ac- 
quirer of  knowledge.  He  has  legs  with  which  to 
walk,  but  he  has  to  learn  to  walk  as  much  as  he  has 
to  learn  to  skate  or  to  swim  or  to  ride  a  bicycle.  He 
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THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

is  born  with  vocal  cords  and  organs  of  speech,  but 
he  has  to  invent  his  own  language  and  music.  The 
animals,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not  have  to  learn  to 
walk  or  swim  or  fly  or  speak.  If  these  acts  are  ap- 
propriate to  their  kind,  they  do  them  naturally. 
The  lamb  and  the  calf  walk,  the  duck  swims,  the 
snake  strikes,  the  hour  they  are  born. 

Man  is  a  generalized  type,  except  as  regards  his 
brain-power.  He  is  not  by  his  anatomy  a  climber, 
or  a  swimmer,  or  a  wader,  or  a  flyer;  he  has  neither 
fangs,  tusks,  talons,  horns,  spurs,  nor  claws.  And 
yet,  by  virtue  of  his  gift  of  reason,  he  does  all  of 
these  things  —  provides  himself  with  tools  that 
serve  all  these  purposes  and  many  more.  It  is  his 
reason,  and  not  his  instinct,  that  places  him  so  far 
above  all  other  animals.  A  man  with  skates  on  his 
feet  is  like  one  of  the  lower  animals  in  this  respect  : 
he  is  specialized,  his  range  is  limited.  If  he  were 
born  with  such  a  device  on  his  feet,  he  would  have 
an  instinct  for  skating;  or  if  he  had  a  nose  like  a  pig, 
he  would  have  an  instinct  for  rooting;  if  he  had  feet 
like  a  goose,  he  would  have  an  instinct  for  swim- 
ming. Man's  organization  and  brain-power  is  such 
that  pure  instinct  plays  a  far  smaller  part  in  his  life 
than  it  does  in  the  lives  of  the  animals  below  him. 
He  has  general  instincts,  while  they  have  special 
instincts;  he  checks  and  controls  or  suppresses  his 
instincts  by  his  reason,  which  the  animals  never  do. 
A  man  may  have  more  instincts  than  his  dog  or  his 
160 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

horse  or  his  ox,  but  how  wide  of  the  mark  it  would  be 
to  say  that  he  is  under  the  dominion  of  his  instincts 
as  these  animals  are  under  the  dominion  of  theirs! 

We  are  all  more  or  less  the  creatures  of  habit,  but 
of  acquired  habits  rather  than  inherited  habits. 
Man  has  filled  the  world  with  his  acquisitions,  and 
changed  the  face  of  continents  with  the  tools  he  has 
invented.  He  performs  hardly  an  action  that  is  not 
the  result  of  some  acquired  habit  or  for  which  he 
does  not  draw  upon  some  acquired  or  stored-up 
power.  Nature  gave  him  the  power  to  make  sounds, 
but  his  language,  his  music,  he  has  invented;  she 
gave  him  the  power  to  walk,  but  his  power  to  sail, 
to  fly,  to  cross  continents  faster  than  the  fleetest 
horse,  he  has  given  himself;  she  gave  him  the  power 
to  hurl  a  stone  or  a  spear  or  a  club;  but  the  power  to 
hurl  tons  of  metal  miles  upon  miles,  he  has  given 
himself. 

What  the  wild  creatures  shall  do,  where  they 
shall  live,  what  they  shall  eat,  is  determined,  I 
repeat,  by  their  organization.  Acquired  habit  or 
experience  modifies  the  natural  course  of  their  lives 
very  little.  The  scarcity  of  their  staple  food  may 
drive  them  to  an  unaccustomed  diet,  as  when  the 
crossbills  from  the  north  fell  upon  the  peach  orchard 
in  my  neighborhood  one  May  and  cut  out  the  germ 
of  the  peach  blossoms.  Hunger  will  drive  a  fox  to 
eat  corn  which  he  cannot  digest,  or  fear  of  the  mon- 
goose will  drive  rats  to  nest  in  trees. 
161 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  "YEARS 

With  our  domestic  animals  the  case  is  different; 
they  are  useful  to  us  mainly  on  account  of  their 
acquired  habits.  We  have  trained  them  to  do  our 
bidding.  The  horse  in  the  harness  or  under  the 
saddle,  the  ox  in  the  yoke  or  hitched  to  the  plough 
or  the  cart,  the  dog  trained  to  point,  to  retrieve,  to 
trail,  the  performing  animals  in  the  circus  or  in  the 
menagerie,  all  act  from  acquired  habits.  Their 
natural  instincts  have  been  eradicated  or  greatly 
modified.  We  have  trained  them  to  our  own  wills,  as 
we  train  a  tree  to  some  arbitrary  pattern.  If  let  alone 
a  few  years,  the  clipped  tree  will  go  back  to  its  natu- 
ral form;  the  domestic  animal,  if  given  a  chance, 
quickly  reverts  to  the  state  of  its  wild  brothers.  Man 
himself,  in  war,  in  camps  in  the  woods,  or  among  the 
mines,  tends  to  revert  to  a  state  of  barbarism. 

In  calling  instinct  inherited  habit  we  do  not,  of 
course,  clear  up  the  mystery.  Perhaps  we  only  sub- 
stitute one  mystery  for  another.  There  remains  the 
mystery  of  inheritance,  which  we  think  we  can  track 
to  certain  parts  of  the  nucleus  of  the  germ  cell,  and 
there  our  analysis  stops. 

The  new  psychology  is  confusing  when  it  says, 
speaking  through  its  magazine  exponent,  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  instinct,  but  "  instincts  there  are 
by  the  score."  There  is  no  such  thing  as  maternal 
instinct,  it  says,  but  only  "  impulses  that  have  to 
do  with  young,  which  females  possess  and  males 
lack";  no  such  thing  as  a  homing  instinct,  but 
162 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

only  an  attachment  for  some  particular  place  to 
which  the  animal  has  learned  the  way.  In  short, 
"  instinct  is  not  a  faculty  but  a  reflex." 

What  men  possess  and  share  with  the  lower  orders 
are  impulses  —  involuntary,  spontaneous  impulses 
to  do  certain  specific  things;  and  this  is  what  we 
mean  by  instinct.  The  "  impulses  that  have  to  do 
with  young,  which  females  possess  and  males  lack" 
—  what  is  that  but  the  maternal  instinct?  It  is  not 
acquired,  it  is  latent  in  the  female,  and  is  developed 
when  her  young  are  born.  In  the  insect  world  it  is 
active  before  the  young  are  born,  and  leads  to  solici- 
tude about  the  young  that  the  mother  is  never  to 
see.  There  is  the  nesting  instinct  in  birds,  which  is 
stronger  in  the  female  than  in  the  male;  the  stalking 
instinct  in  the  cat  is  stronger  than  it  is  in  the  dog. 
We  form  an  idea  of  these  various  unconscious  re- 
sponses or  reactions  to  external  conditions,  and  we 
call  it  instinct. 

Can  we  argue  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  the 
mating  instinct  among  animals,  from  the  fact  that 
it  works  differently  in  different  species?  There  may 
not  be  such  a  thing  as  the  "homing  instinct,"  in  the 
sense  in  which  we  used  to  believe  there  was  in  pre- 
evolutionary  days  —  a  blind  impulse  that  carries  an 
animal  back  home  unerringly,  and  that  acts  inde- 
pendently of  sight  or  sense.  Though  this  is  still  a 
mooted  point,  I  do  not  believe  that  a  wild  animal 
ever  gets  lost,  though  we  know  domestic  ones  do. 
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THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

The  domestic  animal's  instincts  are  by  no  means  as 
sure  in  their  action  as  are  those  of  their  wild  brothers. 
But  I  do  not  believe  that  a  wild  animal  finds  its 
way  home  in  the  same  way  that  a  man  does  —  by  a 
process  of  calculation  and  judgment,  and  memory  of 
familiar  points.  I  have  seen  the  murres  in  Bering 
Sea  fly  for  many  miles  straight  home  to  their  rook- 
eries through  a  dense  fog;  and  the  fur  seals  in  the 
vast  pathless  wilderness  of  the  Pacific  find  their  way 
back  each  spring  to  their  breeding-rocks  in  Bering 
Sea.  I  cannot  see  how  their  sense  of  sight  or  smell 
could  aid  them  in  such  cases.  President  Roosevelt 
told  me  of  a  horse  he  had  during  his  ranch  days  that 
returned  to  its  old  home,  seventy  miles  away,  by 
taking  a  direct  line  across  the  prairie,  swimming 
rivers  in  its  course.  How  did  the  horse  know  the 
way?  Wild  animals  probably  have  a  sense  of  direc- 
tion that  is  enfeebled  or  lost  in  domestic  animals  — 
a  sense  that  civilized  man  has  lost  also,  but  that  is 
keen  in  barbarians. 

The  statement  that  young  ducks  have  no  instinc- 
tive impulse  to  enter  the  water  is  misleading.  Why, 
then,  do  they  enter  it  voluntarily?  Young  ducks 
have  no  instinctive  recognition  of  water  through  the 
eye,  but  they  have  through  the  feet;  the  moment 
they  feel  the  water  with  their  feet,  the  impulse  to 
enter  is  awakened,  and  away  they  go.  Is  this  true 
of  chickens?  Neither  ducks  nor  chickens  know  water 
through  the  sense  of  sight,  but  by  the  sense  of  touch. 
164 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

Their  drinking  and  swimming  habits  are  simply 
reactions.  The  power  must  be  directly  applied  to 
set  the  machinery  going.  This  inherent  tendency  on 
the  part  of  the  duck  to  take  to  the  water  is  instinct. 
The  chicken  does  not  take  to  the  water  when  its  feet 
are  wet;  it  does  not  inherit  the  swimming  impulse, 
and  it  cannot  acquire  it;  its  organization  holds  it  to 
the  land. 

\  The  kitten  may  not  know  a  mouse  at  sight,  but 
does  this  prove  that  it  has  not  the  killing  instinct? 
The  cat  is  a  preying  animal.  It  preys  upon  the  small 
animals  and  birds  and  insects;  and  this  is  not  a  habit, 
but  an  instinct  which  you  cannot  eradicate.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  a  laboratory  kitten  would  not 
kill  a  mouse  offhand,  but  can  any  one  doubt  that  the 
young  of  a  wild  cat  would  kill  a  mouse  at  sight  ? 

Few  mammals  gain  any  knowledge  through  the 
eye.  Often  the  dog  does  not  know  his  own  master 
by  sight.  The  sense  of  smell  is  their  guide;  that 
alone  is  convincing  to  them;  hence  the  keenness  of 
this  sense  in  most  wild  creatures. 

The  writer  to  whom  I  am  referring  says  that 
"so  far  as  the  study  of  animal  behavior  is  con- 
cerned, the  days  of  the  mere  observer  are  past," 
—  he  has  lost  his  job.  The  "new  psychology"  cap- 
tures the  animal,  imprisons  it  in  a  cage  like  a  cul- 
prit, and  then  begins  its  detective  work.  Certain 
things  may,  no  doubt,  be  learned  about  animal 
mentality  by  this  course;  but  I  am  very  skeptical 
165 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

about  the  amount  of  light  that  can  be  thrown  upon 
the  springs  of  animal  life,  at  least  upon  the  life  of 
the  higher  vertebrates,  by  this  inquisitorial  proceed- 
ing. In  the  laboratory,  or  in  any  sort  of  confinement, 
the  animal  is  placed  in  unnatural  conditions,  and 
the  problems  that  confront  it  in  captivity  do  not 
arise  in  the  natural  course  of  its  life.  Its  instincts 
are  demoralized  because  its  body  is  restrained. 
Man  is  a  disturbing  influence.  Animals  under  his 
care  even  change  their  colors.  In  laboratories  their 
native  wit  is  usually  at  low  ebb,  and  they  do  not 
know  what  they  do  know.  Their  instincts  are  balked 
because  of  the  strangeness  of  the  environment.  They 
are  not  themselves,  and  do  not  and  cannot  act  out 
their  true  natures.  What,  for  instance,  could  your 
new  psychologist  learn  of  the  real  life  and  character 
of  my  downy  woodpecker  by  his  laboratory  experi- 
ments ?  Could  he  persuade  him  to  excavate  his  winter 
lodge?  Could  he  induce  him  to  select  a  drum  from 
a  lot  of  dry  limbs  put  in  his  cage,  and,  when  the 
spring  days  come,  begin  his  resonant  hammering 
to  attract  a  mate?  Can  the  real  instincts  and  the 
varied  natural  accomplishments  of  any  of  the  wild 
creatures  be  brought  out  by  this  jailing  process?  I 
doubt  it.  Some  of  us  men  would  cut  a  pretty  poor 
figure  under  such  a  test. 

I  confess  that  this  short  cut  to  animal  psychology 
through  the  laboratory  interests  me  very  little. 
Laboratory  experiments  can  lead  to  little  more  than 
166 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

negative  results.  They  prove  what  the  animal  does 
not  know  and  cannot  do  under  artificial  conditions, 
but  do  they  show  what  it  does  know  and  can  do 
under  natural  conditions? 

I  grant  that  you  can  prove  in  your  laboratories 
that  animals  do  not  reason  —  that  they  have  noth- 
ing like  our  mental  processes.  But  the  observer  in 
the  field  and  woods,  if  he  exercise  any  reason  of  his 
own,  knows  this.  We  see  that  the  caged  bird  or  the 
caged  beast  does  not  reason,  because  no  strength 
of  bar  or  wall  can  convince  it  that  it  cannot  es- 
cape. It  cannot  be  convinced,  because  it  has  no 
faculties  that  are  influenced  by  evidence.  It  con- 
tinues to  struggle  and  to  dash  itself  against  the 
bars,  not  until  it  is  convinced,  but  until  it  is  ex- 
hausted. Then,  slowly,  a  new  habit  is  formed  — 
the  cage  habit,  the  habit  of  submission  to  bars  or 
tethers.  Its  inherited  habits  give  place  to  acquired 
habits.  When  we  train  an  animal  to  do  certain 
"stunts,"  we  do  not  teach  it  or  enlighten  it,  in 
any  proper  sense,  but  we  compel  it  to  form  new 
habits.  We  work  with  the  animal  until  it  goes 
through  its  little  trick  in  the  same  automatic  man- 
ner in  which  its  natural  instincts  were  wont  to 
work. 

I  do  not  care  to  know  how  a  laboratory  coon  gets 

his  food  out  of  a  box  that  is  locked;  but  I  should  like 

to  know  why  he  always  goes  through  the  motion  of 

washing  his  food  before  eating  it,  rubbing  it  in  the 

167 


THE  SUMMIT  OP  THE  YEARS 

sand  or  sawdust  or  straw  of  his  cage,  if  no  water  is 
handy.  I  should  like  to  know  why  he  is  fond  of  shell- 
fish, and  how  he  secures  them,  since  he  is  in  no  sense 
an  aquatic  animal.  In  the  laboratory  you  may 
easily  learn  how  a  mink  or  a  weasel  kills  a  chicken 
or  a  rat;  but  how  does  it  capture  a  rabbit  by  fair 
running  in  the  woods  or  fields,  since  the  rabbit  is 
so  much  more  fleet  of  foot?  In  the  laboratory  you 
might  see  a  black  snake  capture  a  frog  or  a  mouse; 
but  how  does  it  capture  the  wild  bird  or  the  red 
squirrel  in  the  woods?  It  is  this  interplay  of  wild  life, 
the  relations  of  one  animal  with  another,  and  how 
each  species  meets  and  solves  its  own  life  prob- 
lems, that  interest  us,  and  afford  us  the  real  key  to 
animal  behavior.  I  fancy  the  keeper  of  the  Zoo  can 
really  learn  very  little  about  his  animals  that  is 
valuable  and  interesting.  Or  what  does  the  public 
get  out  of  its  Sunday  or  holiday  visits  to  a  zoological 
park,  besides  a  little  idle  amusement?  The  beasts 
there  are  all  prisoners;  and  they  are  more  dejected 
and  abnormal  than  human  prisoners  would  be  under 
like  conditions,  because  they  are  more  completely  cut 
off  from  their  natural  surroundings. 

With  very  low  forms  of  animal  life  the  case  is  dif- 
ferent. They  are  affected  very  little,  if  at  all,  by  the 
presence  of  man  and  by  artificial  conditions.  Pro- 
fessor Loeb's  experiments  with  the  medusse,  ascidi- 
ans,  worms,  and  mollusks  established  many  things 
about  these  low  forms  well  worth  knowing,  —  and 
168 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

that  could  have  been  learned  in  no  other  way  — • 
his  demonstration,  for  instance,  that  certain  phases 
of  tropism,  response  to  external  stimuli,  is  the  same 
in  both  animals  and  plants.  His  demonstrations 
that  life  can  go  on  without  the  nervous  system, 
that  irritability  and  conductibility  are  qualities 
of  protoplasm,  and  that  nature  invented  and  im- 
proved the  nervous  system  to  secure  quicker  and 
better  communication  between  the  parts  of  an  or- 
ganism; the  discovery  that  only  "certain  species  of 
animals  possess  associative  memory,  and  have 
consciousness,  and  that  it  appears  in  them  only 
after  they  have  reached  a  certain  stage  in  their  on- 
togenetic  development "  —  that  any  animal  that  can 
be  trained,  that  can  learn,  possesses  this  memory: 
all  these  things,  and  many  others  that  Loeb  has 
found  out  by  his  laboratory  experiments,  throw 
much  light  on  the  springs  of  animal  life.  It  is  not 
an  instinct  that  drives  the  moth  into  the  flame;  it  is 
a  tropism  —  heliotropism.  It  is  not  an  instinct  that 
makes  a  bedbug  take  refuge  in  a  crack;  it  is  another 
tropism  —  stereotropism,  the  necessity  of  bringing 
the  body  on  every  side  in  contact  with  solid  bodies. 
Professor  Loeb  has  shown  that  neither  experience 
nor  volition  plays  any  part  in  the  behavior  of  bugs 
and  worms;  they  are  machines  set  going  by  outward 
conditions.  The  warmth  of  the  spring  brings  about 
chemical  changes  in  the  bodies  of  caterpillars  that 
set  them  moving  about.  Wingless  plant-lice,  he  says, 
169 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

can  at  any  time  be  made  to  grow  wings  by  simply 
lowering  the  temperature,  or  by  letting  the  plant 
upon  which  they  are  feeding  dry  out.  The  egg-laying 
mechanism  of  the  blow-fly  is  set  going  by  certain 
volatile  substances  contained  in  its  meat,  and  this 
he  calls  chemotropism. 

Still,  one  would  like  to  know  how  this  particular 
kind  of  machinery  came  to  be  developed  in  the  blow- 
fly. The  terms  "  reflexes"  and  "  tropisms"  do  not 
give  a  plummet-line  long  enough  to  sound  all  the 
depths  of  animal  behavior.  With  them  one  may 
measure  very  well  the  conduct  of  the  lower  organ- 
isms, such  as  radiates,  articulates,  mollusks.  The 
lives  of  these  creatures  are  mainly  a  series  of  reflexes 
or  tropisms.  We  could  not  correctly  speak  of  the 
psychology  of  a  clam,  an  oyster,  or  a  worm,  because 
they  have  no  psychic  life;  but  their  tropisms  or  auto- 
matic responses  to  stimuli  are  interesting  to  study. 
These  lower  forms  have  no  instincts,  properly  so 
called.  Not  until  we  get  higher  in  the  scale  of  life, 
and  reach  animals  that  have  associative  memory, 
do  we  reach  the  region  of  psychics,  and  find  that 
complex  behavior  which  we  designate  as  instinctive, 
and  which  results  as  much  from  inborn  impulses  as 
from  outward  stimulation. 

Loeb  is  of  the  opinion  that  all  so-called  instincts 
will  ultimately  be  explained  on  purely  physiological 
principles,  that  is,  on  the  physical  and  chemical  quali- 
ties of  protoplasm.  When  this  is  done,  the  difference 
170 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

between  reflex  and  instinctive  actions  will  disappear. 
The  actions  of  both  men  and  beasts  will  turn  out  to 
be  reactions  to  external  stimuli.  Probably,  every- 
thing in  this  world  has  its  physics,  has  its  genesis 
and  explanation  somehow  in  matter,  from  chemical 
affinity  to  human  passion,  from  animal  instincts  to 
the  poetic  frenzy.  That  marvelous  invention,  the 
phonograph,  has  its  physics  as  surely  as  the  steam- 
engine  has.  But  how  inadequate  the  mechanical 
explanation  of  it  seems.  That  the  tone  of  a  bell,  the 
peal  of  a  bugle,  the  wail  of  a  violin,  the  ring  of  an 
anvil,  and,  above  all,  the  soul  of  the  singer,  as  re- 
vealed in  the  human  voice,  can  all  be  evoked  from 
these  fine,  wavy  lines  in  the  disk  —  how  incredible ! 
The  soul  of  man  certainly  has  its  physics;  our 
thoughts,  our  emotions,  all  have  then*  physical 
basis  in  protoplasm.  I  do  not  think  that  the  brain  se- 
cretes thought  as  the  liver  secretes  bile,  but  I  do  be- 
lieve our  thoughts  are  as  much  the  result  of  physio- 
logical conditions  as  bile  is.  An  analysis  of  the  brain 
and  an  account  of  all  its  chemical  elements  and  prop- 
erties would  fail  to  reveal  to  us  the  secret  of  its 
thoughts,  or  why  one  brain  has  thoughts  of  one  kind 
and  another  of  another  kind;  yet,  no  doubt  the 
cause  is  there,  the  actual,  material,  physiological 
cause,  if  our  analysis  were  keen  enough  to  find  it. 
Our  search  would  be  as  futile  as  our  search  for  the 
complex  music  that  slumbers  in  the  records  of  the 
phonograph. 

171 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

As  a  scientist  one  cannot  admit  anything  mystical 
or  transcendental  in  nature,  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  final  explanation  of  the  least  fact  is  beyond 
us.  We  know  certain  things  about  chemical  affinity, 
for  instance;  but  what  makes  chemical  affinity? 
Why  are  certain  substances  so  crazy  to  be  locked  in 
each  other's  embrace?  Why,  that  is  chemical  affinity. 
But  what  is  chemical  affinity  ?  The  instinct  of  migra- 
tion in  birds  doubtless  has  a  psychological  basis; 
but  whence  this  basis?  How  did  it  come  about?  The 
instinct  of  the  male  for  the  female  doubtless  has  a 
physiological  basis,  but  whence  the  basis?  All  in- 
stincts have  their  physics,  but  are  they  on  that  ac- 
count less  instinctive?  After  we  have  explained 
them,  are  they  any  the  less  untaught,  any  the  less 
independent  of  experience?  Some  kinds  of  chemical 
and  physiological  stimuli  make  the  heart  beat,  but 
does  that  clear  up  the  mystery?  Why  is  this  muscle 
and  no  other  so  susceptible  to  these  stimuli?  Why  is 
the  heart  the  heart? 

It  takes  time  to  develop  and  establish  the  in- 
stincts of  the  lower  orders,  as  it  takes  time  to  de- 
velop the  reason  in  man.  Not  until  an  animal's 
organization  approaches  maturity  do  all  its  reflexes 
act  promptly  and  surely.  It  is  not  a  question  of  ex- 
perience or  of  acquired  habits,  but  of  physiological 
development.  It  takes  nine  days  for  the  kitten's 
eyes  to  open,  and  it  takes  longer  than  that  for  the 
preying  instincts  to  develop.  The^baby  does  not 
172 


THE  KEY  TO  ANIMAL  BEHAVIOR 

wink,  when  you  threaten  its  eyes  with  your  hand, 
until  it  is  two  months  old,  but  its  sucking  instinct 
seems  to  be  developed  when  it  comes  into  the 
world.  Its  instinct  of  fear  comes  much  later,  and 
the  little  girl's  doll-baby  instinct,  if  such  it  be, 
comes  later  still. 

Just  at  this  point  I  am  reminded  of  a  curious  error 
that  John  Fiske  fell  into  in  his  otherwise  admirable 
paper  on  the  helplessness  of  the  human  young  as  a 
factor  in  human  evolution.  "  The  bird  known  as  the 
fly-catcher  no  sooner  breaks  the  egg  than  it  will  snap 
at  and  catch  a  fly."  Of  course  this  is  absurd.  When 
the  young  fly-catcher  first  comes  out  of  the  shell  it 
can  neither  see  nor  lift  its  head.  Its  fly-catching 
does  not  begin  until  it  is  fully  fledged,  and  then  it 
begins  instinctively;  it  is  prompted  to  this  by  its 
organization  and  its  inherited  habits.  So  with  the 
other  forms  of  animal  life.  The  young  bird  has 
wings,  therefore  it  does  not  have  to  be  taught  to 
fly;  the  woodpeckers  have  bills  made  for  drilling; 
therefore  the  drilling  does  not  depend  upon  ex- 
perience; the  woodcock  has  a  beak  for  probing  mud 
and  an  inborn  appetite  for  soft  worms,  therefore 
it  instinctively  probes  mud.  Does  the  young  skunk 
have  to  be  taught  how  to  defend  itself,  or  the  young 
porcupine,  or  the  young  rattler,  or  the  wasp,  or  the 
honey-bee  on  its  first  flight? 

Squirrels  are  nut-eaters;  therefore  they  know  nuts 
the  moment  they  see  or  smell  them.  Some  species 
173 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  monkeys  are  egg-suckers.  A  monkey  of  one  of 
these  species  knows  how  to  deal  with  the  first  egg 
it  comes  across;  a  monkey  not  of  such  species  makes 
a  mess  of  the  first  egg.  These  are  examples  of  in- 
stinct, automatic  reactions,  inherited  habits.  Birds 
not  of  the  fly-catching  species  will  sometimes  pur- 
sue and  try  to  capture  a  small  moth  or  other  insect; 
but  how  awkward  and  futile  their  efforts  when  com- 
pared with  the  quick,  sure  swoop  and  snap  of  the 
born  fly-catcher.  A  sparrow  never  could  learn  to 
take  a  fly  as  the  phcebe  does,  or  a  woodpecker  to 
take  a  fish  as  the  kingfisher  does.  Each  kind  of 
bird  is  a  born  specialist  in  its  own  line. 

The  career  of  every  species  of  animal  is  determined 
for  it  when  it  is  born,  and  before.  The  beaver  does 
not  have  to  be  taught  to  cut  down  trees  and  to  build 
a  dam,  nor  the  muskrat  to  build  its  house,  nor  the 
woodchuck  to  dig  its  hole.  They  come  into  the  world 
with  the  tools  and  the  impulses  to  do  these  several 
things.  "  Habit,"  indeed!  So  is  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
tide  a  habit;  so  is  the  singing  of  the  wind  in  the  tree- 
top  a  habit;  so  is  sunrise  and  sunset  a  habit.  But  the 
habit  is  as  old  as  time  and  as  new  as  the  day. 


IX 
THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 


I  MUST  beg  my  reader's  indulgence  in  returning 
to  the  subject  of  the  last  essay.  As  there  pretty 
clearly  indicated,  I  have  little  sympathy  with  the 
laboratory  method  of  studying  animal  behavior. 
I  cannot  make  myself  believe  that  much  real  insight 
can  be  had  into  its  hidden  springs  by  such  methods. 
Of  course,  being  a  field  observer  of  wild  life,  and  a 
lover  of  the  open,  I  am  out  of  sympathy  with  the 
laboratory  method  to  begin  with.  I  am  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  cold,  mechanical,  and  businesslike 
procedures  that  it  involves.  The  results  have  too 
much  the  character  of  the  forced,  the  artificial,  the 
unnatural.  The  laboratory  method  applied  to  man 
often  leads  to  valuable  results,  because  man  lives 
and  moves  and  has  his  being  amid  artificial  con- 
ditions. Animal  intelligence  in  the  laboratory  is, 
for  the  most  part,  conspicuous  by  its  absence.  The 
poor  creatures,  confronted  by  the  strange  condi- 
tions and  the  new  problems,  do  not  know  what 
they  do  know,  any  more  than  men  usually  do 
under  like  circumstances.  They  are  drilled  into 
forming  new  habits,  —  the  puzzle-box  habit,  the 
175 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

labyrinth  habit,  or  some  other  habit,  —  and  after 
many  trials  they  come  to  do  their  little  tricks  in  an 
entirely  automatic  way.  They  appear  to  show  no 
understanding  whatever  of  the  whys  and  the  where- 
fores of  the  things  they  do. 

Professor  Thorndike  found  that  it  took  on  an 
average  seventy  or  eighty  repetitions  of  a  trick  with 
his  chicks  and  cats  and  monkeys,  to  stamp  the  pro- 
cess into  their  minds,  before  they  could  do  it  cor- 
rectly. The  monkey  did  not  seem  to  learn  his  trick 
of  opening  the  puzzle-box  any  more  rapidly  by  the 
professor's  repeatedly  taking  hold  of  his  paw  and 
drawing  the  bolt  for  him.  He  seemed  incapable  of 
forming  any  concept  on  the  subject.  The  trained 
animals  we  see  at  the  show  go  through  their  various 
parts  precisely  as  if  they  were  machines.  They  don't 
know  what  they  are  doing  any  more  than  a  clock 
does  when  it  strikes.  The  normal  current  of  their 
activities,  which  activities  do  not  spring  from  ideas, 
or  any  mental  concepts,  but  from  innate  impulses, 
is  turned  in  a  new  direction  and  is  kept  flowing 
there  till  a  new  channel  is  worn.  Professor 
Thorndike  found  that  when  a  chick  had  been 
drilled  to  escape  from  a  box  by  a  roundabout  way, 
it  would  stick  to  the  roundabout  way  after  the 
direct  and  easy  way  had  been  opened  to  it;  in  this 
respect  being  less  free  than  the  natural  forces  or 
elements  which,  the  instant  a  barrier  is  removed, 
resume  the  old  easy  course. 
176 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

The  gulf  that  separates  the  mind  of  man  from 
the  mind  of  the  animals  below  him  —  if  we  can  call 
mind  that  bundle  of  instincts,  reflexes,  tropisms,  and 
sense-impressions  —  is  so  great  that  I  often  wonder 
if  I  am  wrong  in  feeling  that  it  is  as  misleading  to 
discuss  or  describe  so-called  animal  psychology  in 
terms  of  human  psychology  as  it  would  be  to  dis- 
cuss, the  physiological  functions  of  a  bee  or  an  ant 
in  terms  of  our  own  physiology.  The  bee  breathes 
and  yet  it  has  no  lungs;  the  oxygen  of  the  air  reaches 
its  tissues,  and  yet  it  has  no  blood;  it  smells,  and  yet 
it  has  no  olfactories;  it  sees,  and  yet  its  eye  has  no 
parts  analogous  to  the  retina,  the  crystalline  lens, 
and  the  aqueous  humor;  it  has  form  and  structure, 
and  yet  it  has  no  bones,  and  it  is  only  by  courtesy 
that  the  anterior  ganglion  to  which  run  the  nerves  of 
the  eye  can  be  called  a  "  brain";  and  yet  behold  the 
wonderful  intelligence  of  the  bees  and  the  ants !  In 
like  manner,  we  might  say  that  the  dog  reasons,  and 
yet  he  has  no  faculty  of  reason;  he  remembers,  and 
yet  he  has  no  faculty  of  memory;  he  experiences 
shame  and  guilt,  and  yet  he  has  no  moral  conscience; 
he  is  resourceful,  and  yet  he  has  no  free  ideas.  Just 
what  he  does  have  that  stands  him  instead,  I  think 
the  laboratory  inquirer  is  as  powerless  to  discover  as 
is  the  outdoor  observer. 

Animals  find  their  way  home,  they  communicate 
with  one  another,  they  are  able  to  act  in  unison,  by 
some  means  to  which  we  are  strangers.  In  not  reach- 
177 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

ing  our  state  of  reason,  some  compensation  has  been 
made  to  them;  such  intelligence  as  guided  the  world 
of  animal  life  down  the  long  aeons  before  the  advent 
of  man,  is  theirs.  Their  wisdom  is  very  old;  man's 
is  very  new.  They  learned  how  to  live,  how  to  solve 
their  life-problems,  ages  ago.  Man  has  inherited 
much,  though  not  all,  of  their  knowledge,  and 
through  his  new  gift  of  reason  he  has  added  vast 
stores  of  his  own  to  which  they  are  and  must  always 
remain  strangers.  Through  his  new  faculty  he  can 
go  to  them,  and  in  a  measure  understand  them,  but 
they  cannot  in  the  same  sense  come  to  him. 

I  would  not  imply  that  the  gulf  that  separates 
man  from  the  higher  mammals  is  as  great  as  the  gulf 
that  separates  him  from  the  world  of  the  inverte- 
brates, high  as  is  the  intelligence  that  some  of  these 
forms  display;  but  it  is  vastly  greater  than  that 
which  separates  the  other  vertebrate  orders  from  one 
another.  They  are  all  members  of  one  family  in  the 
great  house  of  Nature,  differing  in  traits  and  capa- 
cities and  habits,  yet  all  alike  the  beneficiaries  of 
natural  law.  Man  in  comparison  is  like  a  visitant 
from  another  sphere;  his  relation  to  the  animal  world 
is  that  of  a  superior  being.  He  takes  the  globe  into 
his  hands  and  changes  its  surface,  he  crosses  and  uses 
natural  forces,  he  reverses  Nature's  processes.  If 
the  animals  could  conceive  of  a  god,  man  would  be 
that  god.  His  might  transcends  theirs,  not  in  degree 
only,  but  in  kind.  Their  tools  are  parts  of  their  own 
178 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

bodies,  but  man's  tools  are  the  great  forces  of  Na- 
ture, and  with  his  puny  body  he  turns  rivers,  and 
removes  mountains,  or  changes  the  face  of  a  conti- 
nent. Their  life-problems  are  how  to  live  and  propa- 
gate their  kind;  his  are  these,  and,  in  addition,  how 
to  master  the  secrets  of  the  universe,  and  turn  them 
to  his  own  good,  physical  and  mental. 

ii 

Probably  one  reason  why  the  laboratory  investi- 
gator finds  so  little  of  what  we  call  intelligence  in  his 
subjects  is  that  he  takes  them  out  of  the  animal 
sphere  and  puts  them  in  the  human  sphere.  The 
problems  he  sets  before  them  are  human  problems 
and  not'  animal  problems — they  imply  a  knowledge 
of  mechanical  and  artificial  conditions;  this  places 
the  dog,  the  cat,  the  monkey,  the  coon,  in  situations 
entirely  foreign  to  those  in  which  Nature  places 
them,  and  to  which  their  lives  have  been  shaped. 
Ideas  from  the  human  plane  are  introduced  into  the 
animal  plane.  The  way  the  cat  and  the  dog  deal 
with  these  might  be  a  test  of  their  human  intelli- 
gence, but  not  of  their  native  intelligence.  An  ani- 
mal out  of  its  proper  sphere  is  likely  to  prove  very 
stupid,  while  in  its  sphere,  confronted  by  its  own 
life-needs,  it  may  surprise  us  by  its  resourcefulness. 
We  know  this  to  be  true  of  men ;  why  not,  in  a  lesser 
degree,  of  course,  of  animals? 

One  need  only  note  the  misdirected  fury  of  a 
179 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

robin  dashing  at  a  supposed  rival  —  its  own  reflected 
image  on  the  window-pane  of  a  darkened  room  —  to 
appreciate  what  witless  machines  the  birds  are  under 
certain  conditions;  or  watch  the  raccoon  seriously 
engaged  in  the  farce  of  washing  its  food  in  the  sand 
or  the  straw  on  the  bottom  of  its  cage,  to  reach  the 
same  conclusion.  Yet  in  the  field  of  their  normal 
free  activity,  away  from  conditions  imposed  by  man, 
how  clever  these  creatures  are !  The  animals  show 
little  wit  in  dealing  with  human  problems,  but  their 
own  natural  problems  they  are  fitted,  both  by  or- 
ganization and  by  instinct,  to  solve.  Birds  in  nest- 
ing will  often  avail  themselves  of  human  handiwork 
and  shelter,  as  when  they  build  in  our  barns,  or  on 
our  porches,  or  in  our  chimneys;  but  in  so  doing  they 
are  solving  their  own  problems,  and  not  ours.  I 
heard  of  a  well-authenticated  case  of  a  pair  of  robins 
building  their  nest  under  the  box  on  the  running- 
gear  of  a  farmer's  wagon  which  stood  under  a  shed, 
and  with  which  the  farmer  was  in  the  habit  of  mak- 
ing two  trips  to  the  village,  two  miles  away,  each 
week.  The  robins  followed  him  on  these  trips,  and 
the  mother  bird  went  forward  with  her  incubation 
while  the  farmer  did  his  errands,  and  the  birds  re- 
turned with  him  when  he  drove  home.  And,  strange 
to  say,  the  brood  was  duly  hatched  and  reared.  But 
in  this  case  the  bird's  primary  problem,  that  of  nest- 
building,  was  her  own;  human  agency  came  in  only 
accidentally,  furnishing  the  nest's  support.  The  inci- 
180 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

dent  only  shows  what  a  hustler  and  true  American 
the  robin  is,  and  that  he  could  have  gone  West  with 
the  farmers  on  a  prairie  schooner,  and  reared  a  fam- 
ily, or  several  of  them,  on  the  way. 

I  know  it  is  hard  for  us  to  grasp  the  idea  of  a  quali- 
tative difference  in  intelligence,  yet  we  seem  almost 
forced  to  admit  such  a  difference.  A  plant  shows  in- 
telligence in  getting  on  in  life,  in  its  many  devices 
for  scattering  its  seed,  in  securing  cross-fertilization, 
in  adapting  itself  to  its  environment;  yet  how  this 
differs  from  human  intelligence !  When  the  curving 
canes  of  the  black  raspberry  bend  down  to  the  earth 
at  a  certain  time  and  take  root  at  the  end,  do  they 
not  act  as  wisely  and  apparently  as  voluntarily  as 
do  some  animals?  Yet  this  intelligence  differs  in 
kind  from  that  of  man.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the 
intelligence  that  pervades  all  Nature.  Man's  intelli- 
gence has  arisen  out  of  this  cosmic  mind  through  a 
process  of  creative  evolution,  but  it  is  of  a  different 
order,  it  does  not  go  with  Nature  as  does  that  of  the 
lower  orders,  so  much  as  it  bends  and  guides,  or 
thwarts,  Nature.  An  animal  on  the  animal  plane  is 
one  thing,  on  the  human  plane  it  is  quite  another. 
It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  it  will  show  more  wit 
in  solving  its  own  life-problems  than  it  will  show 
in  solving  those  which  man,  in  the  fever  of  his  scien- 
tific curiosity,  sets  for  it.  What  could  the  indoor 
investigator  learn  of  the  cunning  of  the  crow  or 
the  fox,  of  the  sagacity  of  the  dog,  of  the  art  and 
181 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

skill  of  the  bird  in  building  its  nest,  and  caring  for 
its  young? 

The  laboratory  investigator  has  animal  behavior 
more  in  a  nutshell,  and  for  that  very  reason  is  cut 
off  from  all  perspective,  all  total  effects.  He  cannot 
reconstruct  a  complete  dog  or  cat  or  monkey  out  of 
his  laboratory  analyses  without  aid  from  free  obser- 
vation outside.  He  could  learn  very  little  about  a  col- 
lie dog,  or  a  setter  dog,  in  his  laboratory  that  would 
enable  him  to  infer  all  the  capacities  of  those  crea- 
tures, any  more  than  he  could  of  a  man.  Indeed,  he 
would  fare  better  with  a  man,  because  he  could 
probe  his  mentality,  his  power  of  thought,  though 
not  his  power  of  action.  The  animal  acts,  it  does 
not  think;  and  to  test  its  power  of  action  is  harder 
than  to  test  a  man's  thinking  capacity. 

In  leading  their  own  unrestrained  lives  there  often 
is,  among  both  wild  and  domesticated  animals,  some- 
thing, some  resourcefulness  in  meeting  a  new  condi- 
tion, some  change  of  habit,  some  adaptation  of  new 
means  to  an  old  end,  or  old  means  to  a  new  end,  that 
looks,  at  least,  like  a  gleam  of  free  intelligence,  or  an 
attribute  of  true  mind :  as  when  a  chipmunk  cuts  a 
groove  in  the  side  of  a  hole  he  is  digging,  so  as  to 
get  out  a  stone  he  has  struck,  and  then  fills  up  the 
groove;  or  when  a  monkey  selects  a  straw  from  the 
floor  of  his  cage  to  poke  an  insect  out  of  a  crack  in 
the  side;  or  when  wolves  combine  to  run  down  a 
deer  or  a  hare  by  relays;  or  a  pointer  dog,  of  his  own 
182 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

accord,  runs  round  a  bevy  of  quail  that  will  not  sit, 
but  keep  moving  off,  and  places  them  between 
himself  and  the  sportsman;  or  when  gulls  carry  shell- 
fish high  in  the  air  and  drop  them  on  the  rocks  to 
break  their  shells ;  or  when,  in  Africa,  a  bird  called  the 
honey-guide  leads  the  hunter  to  stores  of  wild  honey 
—  a  fact  which  Roosevelt  verified.  We  have  no  ways 
in  the  laboratory,  or  out,  to  assay  such  incidents  and 
discover  how  much,  if  any,  of  the  gold  of  real  thought 
they  contain.  They  may  contain  none,  but  may  be 
only  phases  of  the  animal's  instinctive  activities, 
yet  they  are  phases  which  the  laboratory  investiga- 
tor is  powerless  to  bring  out.  If  there  are  degrees 
in  instinct,  as  in  judgment,  then  in  the  cases  just 
cited  we  have  the  higher  degrees. 

in 

The  laboratory  naturalist  is  hampered  by  the  nar- 
rowness of  his  field:  he  has  but  one  string  to  his 
bow,  he  has  to  do  with  only  one  phase  or  motive  of 
animal  life  —  the  desire  for  food;  the  mainspring 
of 'the  behavior  of  all  his  subjects  is  their  hunger. 
Spurred  on  by  the  sight  or  smell  of  food  they  attack 
the  problems  he  sets  before  them.  All  the  rest  of 
their  varied  and  picturesque  activities  in  field  and 
wood,  their  multiplex  life-problems  for  which  Nature 
has  equipped  them,  both  physically  and  mentally, 
their  loves,  their  wars,  their  home-making  and  nest- 
building,  their  migrations,  their  herdings,  their 
183 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

flockings,  their  rivalries,  eluding  their  enemies, 
hunting  their  prey,  their  social  instincts,  their  co- 
operation, —  in  fact,  all  their  relations  with  one 
another,  and  with  their  natural  environment,  — 
from  all  this  the  indoor  investigator  is  cut  off;  only 
the  stimulus  of  food  or  the  fear  of  punishment  re- 
mains for  him  to  work  upon.  His  animals  act  only 
under  the  incentive  of  appetite.  The  greater  the 
hunger,  the  greater  the  wit.  The  experimenters  at 
times  starve  their  subjects  till  they  become  abnor- 
mally eager  and  active.  The  food  question  certainly 
enters  very  largely  into  an  animal's  life,  and  its  re- 
sourcefulness in  obtaining  food  may  well  serve  as 
one  measure  of  its  intelligence.  But  it  has  other 
life-problems,  several  of  them,  which  are  just  as  im- 
portant, and  about  which  it  is  just  as  keen,  but  which 
the  experimenter  cannot  bring  to  bear.  His  labora- 
tory is  too  narrow  a  field  for  these  activities,  as  is 
even  the  large  zoological  park.  He  cannot  study  the 
migratory  instinct,  the  flocking  or  herding  or  hunting 
instinct,  nor,  with  the  wild  creatures,  the  mating  and 
breeding  instinct.  He  can  throw  no  light  on  an  ani- 
mal's life-habits.  He  can  find  out  how  it  will  act 
under  given  strange  conditions,  but  not  how  it  be- 
haves under  its  natural  conditions.  Hence  the 
little  interest  the  natural-historians  feel  in  his  infer- 
ences and  conclusions. 

It  is  true  that  the  laboratory  student  of  animal 
psychology  can  reach  his  results  more  rapidly  than 
184 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

can  the  field  naturalist;  he  takes  a  short  cut,  he  gets 
the  bare  fact,  shorn  of  its  picturesque  details.  But 
how  much  he  misses!  I  sometimes  think  of  him 
under  the  parable  of  a  man  dining  on  capsules  that 
contain  the  chemical  equivalents  of  the  food  we  eat 
—  a  short  cut,  surely,  but  the  pleasure  and  satis- 
faction of  the  dinner-table,  social  and  gustatory, 
the  taste  of  fruit  and  milk  and  meat  and  grain,  are 
not  his.  Live  natural  history  in  the  field  and  woods 
and  on  the  shore,  the  uncontrolled  animal  going 
its  free,  picturesque  ways,  solving  its  life-problems 
as  they  come  to  it  in  the  revolving  seasons,  using 
such  mind  as  it  has,  without  constraint  or  arbitrary 
direction,  threading  only  the  labyrinth  which  Na- 
ture prepares  for  it,  stimulated  only  by  the  sights  and 
sounds  and  odors  of  its  natural  habitat,  perplexed 
with  no  puzzles  but  how  to  get  its  food,  avoid  its 
enemies,  rear  its  young,  hide  its  nest  or  den,  and  get 
out  of  life  what  there  is  in  it  —  how  much  more  en- 
gaging and  stimulating  an  animal  under  such  con- 
ditions than  the  same  creature  being  put  through  its 
paces  under  controlled  conditions  in  the  laboratory. 
So  far  as  an  exact  science  of  animal  conduct  is 
possible,  the  experimentalist  has  the  advantage  over 
the  free  observer;  so  far  as  natural  history  is  a  joy, 
and  of  educational  value,  and  an  introduction  to  the 
whole  field  of  animal  life,  he  is  not  to  be  named  the 
same  day  with  the  outdoor  observer.  Welcome, 
thrice  welcome,  all  the  light  the  laboratory  method 
185 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  inquiry  can  throw  upon  the  puzzle  of  animal  men- 
tality and  its  relation  to  our  own;  it  is  engaging  the 
attention  of  some  serious-minded  men,  and  I  would 
not  undervalue  its  contributions  to  our  knowledge 
of  the  springs  of  animal  psychology.  At  the  same 
time  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  think  it  can  take  us 
but  a  little  way  into  the  great  field  of  animal  life. 
The  true  perspective  of  such  life  can  only  be  given 
by  the  student  of  the  uncontrolled  behavior  of  our 
dumb  friends. 

The  low  valuation  I  set  upon  animal  experi- 
mentation does  not,  as  some  of  my  readers  seem 
to  think,  apply  with  the  same  force  to  all  experi- 
mental science.  Experimental  science  has  given 
us  our  material  civilization;  what  has  animal  ex- 
perimentation given  us?  The  inorganic  elements 
and  forces  behave  the  same  in  the  laboratory  and 
out.  But  a  live  animal  does  not.  You  cannot  con- 
trol life  as  you  can  chemical  reactions.  Sound, 
heat,  light,  electricity,  are  the  same  everywhere, 
but  an  animal  has  nerves  and  instincts  and  asso- 
ciative memory.  The  dog  with  the  puzzle-box  is 
quite  a  different  creature  from  the  dog  with  the 
woodchuck. 

Anything  like  an  exact  science  of  animal  behavior 
is,  it  seems  to  me,  as  impossible  in  the  laboratory  as 
out  of  it.  If  animals  were  perfect  automata,  then 
we  might  have  the  science  of  animal  behavior  that 
the  experimentalists  dream  of;  but  the  conduct  of 
186 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

the  same  animals  under  identical  conditions  is  dis- 
similar, or  contradictory,  as  is  that  of  different  men. 
There  is  no  rigid  uniformity  in  their  behavior.  "A 
loud  sound,"  says  Professor  Thorndike,  "  may  make 
one  chick  run,  another  crouch,  another  give  the 
danger-call,  and  another  do  nothing  whatever."  It 
is  doubtless  owing  to  such  facts  as  these  that  experi- 
menters arrive  at  such  different  results,  often  con- 
tradictory results.  And  we  are  not  on  any  more 
permanent  ground,  according  to  Professor  James,  in 
the  case  of  man  himself:  "A  string  of  raw  facts; 
a  little  of  gossip  and  wrangle  about  opinions;  a 
little  classification  and  generalization  on  a  mere 
descriptive  level;  a  strong  prejudice  that  we  have 
states  of  mind,  and  that  our  brains  condition  them; 
but  not  a  single  law,  in  the  sense  physics  shows  us 
laws,  not  a  single  proposition  from  which  conse- 
quences can  causally  be  deduced." 

G.  Archibald  Reid,  speaking  of  the  laboratory 
method  of  inquiry  in  biology,  says,  in  his  book  on 
"The  Laws  of  Heredity":  "There  is  nothing  es- 
pecially magical,  scientific,  or  accurate  in  data  ob- 
scured to  our  senses  till  revealed  by  a  laboratory 
inquiry.  Such  an  inquiry  can  do  no  more  than  render 
them  as  patent,  but  no  more  patent,  than  the  ma- 
jority of  facts  on  which  our  knowledge  of  living 
beings  is  based.  ...  If  the  reader  will  think  over  the 
evidence  on  which  I  shall  draw  for  the  purpose  of 
the  present  volume,  I  believe  he  will  conclude  that, 
187 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

if  any  of  it  bears  a  doubtful  aspect  to  his  mind,  it  is 
that  large  mass  which  has  been  furnished  by  labora- 
tory inquiry;  for,  while  some  of  the  latter  is  contro- 
verted, and  all  of  it  must  be  accepted  by  most  people 
at  second-hand,  nearly  all  the  rest  is  indisputably 
true,  as  he  will  know  from  his  own  experience  of 
life." 

IV 

The  university  psychologist  has  little  confidence 
in  the  ability  of  the  field  naturalist  to  interpret  cor- 
rectly "what  he  supposes  himself  to  have  seen," 
even  if  it  be  only  the  doings  of  a  downy  woodpecker 
excavating  his  chamber  in  an  old  post.  What,  he 
asks  in  substance,  does  one  know  about  a  downy 
woodpecker,  which  one  has  observed  from  one's 
front  porch,  excavating  a  cavity  for  a  winter  home 
in  the  top  of  a  chestnut  post?  What  does  he  know  in 
detail  of  the  bird's  past  experience,  what  of  its  age, 
what  of  its  various  sense-powers,  such  as  its  seeing, 
smelling,  and  hearing  powers,  what  of  the  way  its 
various  powers  have  been  developed,  what  of  the 
number  of  times  it  has  tried  the  same  act  and  failed, 
what  of  the  circumstances  that  may  have  enabled 
it  to  invent  a  new  plan  of  action,  whether  it  is  an 
average  bird  of  the  species,  or  an  unusual  one, 
etc.?  What  indeed  and  how  better  off  in  this  re- 
spect would  the  experimentalist  be?  The  naturalist 
is  probably  familiar  with  the  life  and  habits  of  the 
188 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

bird,  he  may  have  seen  it  excavating  its  winter  cham- 
ber many  times,  —  not  this  same  individual  bird,  but 
its  duplicate  in  other  specimens,  —  and  he  knows 
that  each  one  of  these  shows  exactly  the  same  char- 
acteristics, though  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  under 
pressure,  in  confinement,  and  in  unnatural  condi- 
tions, different  birds  would  show  different  traits  and 
aptitudes.  Yet  neither  the  naturalist  nor  the  ex- 
perimentalist could  get  at  all  the  facts  in  the  wood- 
pecker's past  life  —  its  age,  its  failures,  its  stupidi- 
ties, its  rate  of  development,  its  sense-powers,  and 
the  like. 

The  experimentalist  referred  to  would  seem  to 
imply  that  if  he  had  the  bird  in  his  laboratory  he 
could  settle  all  these  points;  whereas  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  field  observer  knows  just  as  much  about 
these  things  as  the  laboratory  experimenter  could 
know.  Neither  can  get  at  all  the  exact  facts  in  the 
bird's  past  history,  while  it  is  extremely  doubtful  if, 
in  confinement,  the  bird  would  even  attempt  to 
excavate  a  chamber  in  a  post,  or  exhibit  any  of  its 
natural  aptitudes,  or  give  any  clues  to  its  real  life- 
history.  The  acuteness  of  its  various  senses  can 
surely  be  better  tested  in  the  open  air  than  in  the 
laboratory,  because  in  the  open  it  is  leading  a  free, 
natural  life,  while  in  the  cage  it  is  leading  a  con- 
strained, unnatural  life.  It  might  be  trained  to  run 
the  maze,  or  to  pull  a  string  to  open  a  puzzle-box; 
but  of  its  real  life  what  would  or  could  the  bird 
189 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

disclose  to  you  in  rigidly  controlled  experiments? 
If  the  free  bird  is  endowed  with  any  sense-powers 
of  which  the  "  mere  observer "  can  gain  no  first- 
hand knowledge,  what  chance  has  the  laboratory 
observer  of  gaining  a  first-hand  knowledge  of 
them? 

The  field  observer  sees  the  woodpecker  excavating 
a  cavity  in  a  dry  limb  or  stub  in  the  autumn;  he  sees 
that  all  birds  of  this  species  proceed  in  exactly  the 
same  way,  because  they  all  have  the  same  organiza- 
tion, and  hence  the  same  needs;  he  sees  how  care- 
fully the  bird  usually  places  its  entrance  where  it 
will  be  more  or  less  shielded  from  driving  storms; 
he  sees  that  it  rarely  or  never  selects  a  limb  that 
is  too  rotten,  or  insecure;  he  sees  where  it  makes 
many  beginnings  and  then  abandons  the  limb  be- 
cause, apparently,  it  is  too  soft  or  too  hard;  he 
sees  the  bird  cautiously  resorting  to  these  retreats 
as  night  comes  on;  he  sees  him  living  alone  in 
there,  little  hermit  that  he  is;  he  sees  how  he  is  often 
dispossessed  of  his  cabin  by  the  hairy  woodpecker, 
or  by  the  flying  squirrel,  or  the  English  sparrow; 
he  sees  him  selecting  a  dry  resonant  limb  for  a 
drum  in  the  spring,  on  which  to  drum  up  a  mate; 
he  sees  his  changed  demeanor  when  the  female 
appears,  the  curious,  mincing  flight,  as  if  on  the  tip- 
toe of  his  wings,  with  which  he  follows  her  about  — 
he  sees,  in  short,  a  long  series  of  interesting  facts 
which  reveal  the  real  psychology  of  the  bird,  and 
190  * 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

of  which  the  laboratory  naturalist  could  get  no 
inkling. 

The  laboratory  study  of  the  animal  mind  is  within 
its  proper  limits  worthy  of  all  respect,  but  you  can 
no  more  get  at  a  complete  animal  psychology  by 
this  method  than  you  can  get  at  the  beauty  and 
character  and  natural  history  of  a  tree  by  studying 
a  cross  section  of  its  trunk  or  of  one  of  its  branches. 
You  may  get  at  the  anatomy  and  cell-structure  of 
the  tree  by  this  means,  but  will  not  the  real  tree 
escape  you?  A  little  may  be  learned  of  the  science 
of  animal  behavior  in  the  laboratory,  but  the  main, 
the  illuminating  things  can  be  learned  only  from  ob- 
servation of  the  free  animal. 

I  fear  that  the  experimenters  unduly  exalt  their 
office.  The  open-air  naturalist  arrives  at  most  of 
their  results,  and  by  a  much  more  enjoyable  and 
picturesque  route.  Without  all  their  pother  and  ap^ 
pliances  and  tiresome  calculations,  he  arrives  at  a 
clear  conception  of  the  springs  of  animal  behavior. 
The  indoor  investigator  usually  experiments  with 
domestic  animals,  animals  that  have  been  much 
changed  and  humanized  by  ages  of  association  with 
man,  such  as  the  ,cat  and  the  dog.  What  important 
addition  has  he  made,  or  can  he  make,  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  these  animals?  He  has  learned  that  the  dog 
is  probably  color-blind,  which  one  might  have  eas- 
ily inferred,  since  the  color-sense  could  be  of  little 
use  to  the  dog,  or  to  any  other  quadruped.  A  power 
191 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

to  discriminate  different  degrees  of  brightness  might 
possibly  be  of  use,  and  this  the  animals  may  have. 
This  is  the  gift  of  the  color-blind  man,  and  is  of 
course  a  much  older  gift  than  the  color-sense. 
But  of  the  dog's  marvelous  powers  of  scent,  as  dis- 
played by  the  setter  and  the  fox-hound,  he  can  learn 
little.  Of  his  real  intelligence  and  of  his  various 
capacities  and  capabilities,  he  can  learn  little.  We 
do  not  need  laboratory  experiments  to  prove  to  us 
that  the  dog's  touchstone  is  his  nose,  and  not  his 
eye;  his  eye  is  of  second-  or  third-rate  importance 
to  him;  his  ear  serves  him  more  than  his  eye;  he 
does  not  know  his  own  master  till  he  has  got  his 
scent  or  heard  his  voice.  For  the  most  part  he 
sees  only  objects  in  motion.  A  fox  will  pass  to  wind- 
ward within  a  few  feet  of  the  hunter  if  the  hunter  is 
silent  and  motionless.  There  is  little  power  of  dis- 
crimination in  the  eye  of  any  of  the  canine  tribe;  the 
acuteness  of  their  other  senses  makes  up  for  it.  The 
eye  of  a  bird  —  a  crow,  a  hawk  —  how  different ! 
Sit  as  motionless  as  a  statue,  and  you  cannot  escape 
the  eye  of  the  crow  —  though  the  eyes  of  all  animals 
are  especially  sensitive  to  objects  in  motion.  Prob- 
ably none  of  them  can  discriminate  a  motionless 
object  as  a  man  can.  They  have  not  reason  to  aid 
them.  A  man's  seeing  is  backed  up  by  his  stores 
of  knowledge.  The  way  certain  animals  can  be 
"  flagged  "  shows  how  superficial  their  seeing  is.  The 
way  a  hawk  will  allow  the  approach  of  a  man  on 
192 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

horseback  shows  how  little  speculation  there  is  in 
his  eye. 

The  thorough  student  of  animal  life  knows  that 
animals  do  not  reason  or  have  any  mental  concepts, 
that  one  can  train  them  to  form  habits,  but  cannot 
develop  their  intelligence;  that  is,  that  they  can  be 
trained,  but  cannot  be  educated.  He  knows  they 
have  no  self -consciousness,  from  such  a  field  obser- 
vation as  this:  song-birds  with  a  defective  instru- 
ment will  sing  as  constantly  and  joyously,  even 
ecstatically,  as  the  perfect- voiced  songsters.  A  bobo- 
link with  only  a  half-articulated  song  will  hover 
above  the  meadows  and  pour  out  his  broken  and  asth- 
matic notes  as  joyously  and  persistently  as  any  of  his 
rivals ;  apparently  he  is  as  oblivious  to  the  inadequacy 
of  his  performance  as  a  machine  would  be.  Last 
spring  one  of  our  roosters  got  a  bad  influenza,  or  in 
some  way  injured  his  vocal  cords,  so  that  only 
half  of  his  crow  was  audible,  and  this  half  was  very 
husky  and  unnatural;  yet  he  went  through  with 
the  motions  of  crowing  just  as  persistently  and  tri- 
umphantly as  ever  he  had.  He  gave  his  rival  crow 
for  crow  day  after  day.  It  was  a  grotesque  perform- 
ance and  was  to  me  proof  of  how  absolutely  void 
of  self -consciousness  the  lower  animals  are. 

One  is  convinced  on  general  principles  that  an 

animal  knows  only  what  it  has  to  know  in  order  to 

survive;  that  when  keenness  of  scent  or  of  hearing 

or  of  sight  is  not  needed,  it  does  not  have  it;  that 

193 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

animals  that  are  defenseless,  like  the  rabbit,  have 
speed  and  are  prolific;  that  animals  that  are  self- 
armed,  like  the  tortoise  and  the  porcupine  and  the 
skunk,  are  slow  and  dull  of  wit.  One  does  not  need 
elaborate  experiments  to  prove  that  the  pigeon  would 
be  slower  in  learning  to  run  the  maze  than  a  squirrel 
or  a  rat;  he  knows  that  all  animals  are  more  or  less 
imitative,  that  the  young  imitate  the  old,  and  the 
old  imitate  one  another;  that  monkeys  by  their  be- 
havior alone  are  nearer  man  than  the  dog  or  the  cat. 

The  work  of  the  experimentalist  may  supplement 
that  of  the  field  observer,  but  it  cannot  take  its 
place.  "  Experiment  has  an  advantage  over  observa- 
tion," says  a  German  writer  on  logic,  "only  so  far 
as  it  is  capable  of  supplementing  the  usual  deficien- 
cies of  the  latter." 

We  cannot  make  Darwins  in  the  laboratory, 
though  the  laboratory  may  give  Darwin  a  fact  or  a 
hint  now  and  then  that  will  be  of  service  to  him. 


If  our  experimenters  can  now  prove  that  birds 
are  color-blind  they  will  raise  havoc  with  Darwin's 
sexual  selection  theory.  Let  them  experiment  upon 
the  peacock,  the  Argus  pheasant,  and  other  birds  of 
brilliant  plumage.  The  males  of  many  of  our  small 
birds  are  brilliantly  colored;  what  part  does  this  play 
in  their  lives?  If  orange,  crimson,  yellow,  blue,  and 
the  various  metallic  lustres  and  changing  irises  are 
194> 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

not  discriminated  by  these  birds,  or  do  not  give  them 
pleasurable  or  exciting  sensations,  then  we  have  to 
look  for  some  reason  for  their  gay  plumes  other  than 
the  approbation  of  the  female.  Our  experimental 
psychologists  have  tested  the  powers  of  the  painted 
turtle  to  discriminate  white  and  black.  But  one 
fails  to  feel  much  interest  in  the  result  of  such  ex- 
perimentations, be  they  what  they  may,  because  the 
facts  can  have  little  or  no  relation  to  the  creature's 
life-problem.  But  the  turtle's  gay  colors  —  can  it 
discriminate  those,  and  what  part  do  they  play  in 
its  life-history? 

On  the  Darwinian  hypothesis  of  sexual  selection, 
the  gay  colors  of  the  painted  turtle  have  a  deep 
significance,  as  do  the  brilliant  colors  of  all  other  ani- 
mals. Does  the  turtle  or  his  mate  discriminate  these 
colors?  is  he  attracted  by  them?  do  they  play  any 
part  at  all  in  the  turtle's  real  life?  Our  common 
box  tortoise  has  striking  and  beautiful  color-pat- 
terns on  its  shell,  often  suggesting  Chinese  charac- 
ters. Can  the  laboratory  naturalist  find  out  their 
significance,  or  that  of  the  brilliant  markings  of 
many  of  the  lizards  and  salamanders;  do  these  ani- 
mals see  and  know  their  own  decorations?  Or  the 
many  brilliant  beetles  and  butterflies  —  are  they 
color-blind  also?  A.  G.  Mayer  has  proved  conclu- 
sively that  the  promethea  moth  has  no  color-sense. 
The  male  of  this  moth  has  blackish  wings  and  the 
female  reddish-brown.  Mayer  caused  the  two  sexes 
195 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

to  change  colors;  he  glued  the  wings  of  the  male  to 
the  female  and  vice  versa,  and  found  that  they  mated 
just  the  same.  The  laboratory  experimentalists 
ought  to  be  able  to  throw  light  upon  these  questions. 

Elaborate  experiments  have  already  been  made 
to  test  the  color-sense  of  certain  birds,  —  the  Eng- 
lish sparrow,  the  cowbird,  the  pigeon,  —  and  also 
such  animals  as  the  raccoon  and  the  monkey,  with 
the  result  that  these  animals  do  appear  to  dis- 
criminate colors.  But  there  always  remains  the 
question:  Are  the  animals  guided  in  such  cases  by 
a  sense  of  color  as  we  have  it,  or  merely  by  a  sense 
of  different  degrees  of  brightness?  A  person  who  is 
color-blind  sees  the  different  colors  as  varying  shades 
of  gray,  and  for  aught  we  know  it  is  the  same  with 
the  animals:  in  selecting,  say,  blue  or  green,  they 
may  only  be  selecting  different  shades  of  gray. 

I  should  like  also  to  see  our  experimentalists  test 
the  musical  sense  of  birds :  are  they  tone-deaf  in  the 
sense  that  they  are  probably  color-blind?  Is  the 
divinely  harmonious  strain  of  the  hermit  thrush, 
for  instance,  lost  upon  the  ears  of  its  mate  and  upon 
its  own  ears?  Does  the  rollicking  and  hilarious  strain 
of  the  bobolink  count  for  nothing  in  its  life?  From 
the  apparent  indifference  of  the  female  song-birds  to 
the  musical  performances  of  their  mates,  one  would 
say  that  the  strains  of  the  males  fall  upon  deaf  ears. 
When  the  cock  in  the  poultry-yard  crows,  the  hens 
shake  their  heads  as  if  the  sound  annoyed  them.  The 
196 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

lark  pouring  out  his  notes  up  in  the  sky  seems  sing- 
ing from  the  joy  of  song  alone.  The  song  of  a  bird 
excites  the  males  of  its  species  to  rivalry,  but  the 
females  are  as  inattentive  as  if  they  had  no  ears.  I 
am  myself  inclined  to  think  that  the  songs  of  birds 
are  a  part  of  the  surplusage  of  the  male  sexual  prin- 
ciple, like  their  bright  colors,  and  that  to  their  mates 
they  are  merely  noises.  The  males  sing  in  the  ab- 
sence of  the  females  just  as  joyously  as  in  their  pres- 
ence, as  note  the  caged  canaries;  and  the  harsh, 
raucous- voiced  birds  are  as  acceptable  to  their  mates 
as  are  the  musical- voiced  to  theirs.  Why  should  it 
not  be  so?  A  consciousness  of  the  pleasure  of  melo- 
dious sounds  would  seem  to  lift  the  bird  out  of  the 
animal  plane  into  the  human  plane. 

I  wish  our  laboratory  investigators  would  tell  me, 
if  they  can,  what  sense  or  faculty  it  is  that  enables 
one  bird  to  pursue  another  so  unerringly  —  a  hawk 
in  pursuit  of  a  sparrow,  or  a  song-bird  pursuing  an- 
other in  sport,  the  pursuer  trimming  its  movement 
to  those  of  the  pursued  as  if  the  two  were  one  body. 
When  a  dog  pursues  a  squirrel  or  a  rabbit,  if  the  pur- 
sued darts  suddenly  to  one  side  it  gains  time,  the 
hunter  overshoots,  and  has  to  recover  itself;  not  so 
with  the  birds,  there  is  no  overshooting,  no  lost  time, 
and  no  recovery.  It  is  as  if  the  pursuer  could  read 
the  intentions  of  the  pursued  at  every  movement, 
and  anticipate  every  dodge  and  turn.  It  is  probably 
some  analogous  gift  or  sense  that  enables  a  flock  of 
197 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

birds  to  act  as  a  unit,  without  leaders  or  signals,  and 
perform  their  astonishing  aerial  evolutions  as  if  the 
flock  were  one  bird,  and  not  a  hundred.  All  the  truly 
gregarious  birds  will  do  this.  Does  the  nocking  in- 
stinct beget  a  sort  of  community  of  mind,  so  that 
the  individual  members  share  each  other's  psychic 
or  mental  states  to  an  extent  quite  unknown  to 
us?  This  opens  up  the  whole  question  of  animal 
communication. 

In  the  absence  of  language  and  reason,  how  do  the 
animals  over  a  wide  extent  of  country  become  pos- 
sessed of  the  same  knowledge  and  the  same  impulse 
at  the  same  time,  and  begin  their  movements  si- 
multaneously? The  vast  moving  armies  of  the  pas- 
senger pigeons  in  the  old  days,  the  migrating  crowds 
of  the  lemmings  in  Norway,  of  reindeer  in  Siberia, 
and  of  caribou  in  Labrador,  every  spring  —  how  do 
these  all  act  in  such  concert?  Hunted  animals  sud- 
denly become  wild,  —  even  those  which  have  had 
no  individual  experience  with  the  hunter,  —  as  if 
the  tribe  were  a  unit,  and  what  one  knew  they  all 
knew  at  the  same  time.  One  would  like  such  problems 
cleared  up.  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  that  the  higher 
animals  have  some  means  of  communication  which 
the  race  of  man,  since  it  came  into  the  gift  of  lan- 
guage and  of  reason,  has  lost,  or  nearly  lost,  and  that 
our  fitful  and  exceptional  experience  of  becoming 
aware  of  what  our  friend  or  companion  is  thinking 
about,  that  experience  which  we  call  telepathy,  is  a 
198 


THE  ANIMAL  AND  THE  PUZZLE-BOX 

survival  of  the  lost  power.  There  is  something  like 
a  community  of  mind  or  of  emotional  states  among 
the  lower  orders,  to  which  we  are  strangers,  except 
when,  under  extraordinary  conditions,  —  as  in  the 
frenzy  of  mobs  and  like  unreasoning  bodies,  —  we 
relapse  into  a  state  of  savage  nature,  and  behave  as 
the  wild  creatures  do.  In  such  cases  there  is  really 
a  community  of  mind  and  purpose.  But  birds  in  a 
flock  possess  this  oneness  of  mental  states  as  a  nor- 
mal and  everyday  condition.  Fish  and  insects  in 
vast  numbers  often  show  a  like  unity  of  instanta- 
neous action. 

There  is  so  much  in  animal  behavior  that  is  inter- 
esting, and  that  throws  light  on  our  own  psychology 
and  its  origin,  that  one  begrudges  the  time  spent  in 
learning  that  dancing  mice  are  deaf,  or  the  numer- 
ous data  as  to  the  tactual  sensations  of  the  white 
rat,  or  "  the  relative  strength  of  stimulus  to  rate  of 
learning  in  the  chick,"  or  the  psychic  reactions  of 
the  crayfish,  or  cockroach,  or  angleworm,  or  grass- 
hopper, unless  they  yield  the  key  to  some  large 
problem.  We  do  not  want  elaborate  experiments  to 
prove  that  frogs  can  hear  —  does  not  every  school- 
boy know  that  they  can,  and  see,  too?  Though  he 
may  not  know  that  "  there  is  some  evidence  that  the 
influence  of  auditory  stimuli  is  most  marked  when 
the  drum  is  half -sub  merged  in  water,"  or  that  "  the 
influence  upon  tactual  reactions  is  evident  when  the 
frog  is  submerged  in  water  to  a  depth  of  four  centi- 
199 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

meters,"  or  that  "sounds  varying  in  pitch  from  those 
of  fifty  to  ten  thousand  vibrations  a  second  affect 
the  frog."  But  what  of  it?  Who  is  really  the  wiser 
for  this  discovery?  I  know  there  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  quarrel  with  men  who  prefer  to  dine  on  the 
concentrated  equivalents  of  our  meats  and  viands. 
Rather  should  I  wish  them  a  good  appetite  for  their 
capsules.  At  the  same  time  I  can  see  no  good  reason 
why  I  should  not  extol  the  pleasure  and  the  profit 
of  taking  our  natural-history  manna  of  field  and 
wood  as  Nature  provides  it  for  us,  and  with  a  relish 
that  only  the  open  air  can  give. 


UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 

THOSE  who  have  read  some  of  the  things  I 
have  published  in  which  I  have  discredited 
the  reasoning  power  of  the  lower  animals  write  me 
stories  of  the  wonderful  intelligence  of  then-  cat  or 
their  dog  or  their  horse  or  their  canary,  and  seem  to 
fancy  I  am  or  should  be  silenced.  Now  I  admit  that 
the  dog  often  does  things  that  seem  to  transcend 
instinct,  but  I  admit  it  reluctantly,  and  ease  the 
admission  by  the  word  "  seems."  I  am  not  certain 
but  that  instinct,  modified  and  trained  by  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  years  of  close  companionship  with 
man,  is  adequate  to  account  for  all  he  does.  I  am 
not  certain  that  after  all  these  ages  of  human  asso- 
ciation his  mind  is  developed  beyond  that  of  his 
brother  the  wolf.  He  is  gentler,  more  confiding, 
and  more  adaptive,  but  his  cunning  and  his  prowess 
are  less,  and  I  doubt  if  he  is  any  more  of  a  rational 
being.  Domestication  improves  the  wild  animals, 
not  by  developing  their  intelligence,  but  by  subdu- 
ing their  wildness  and  making  them  more  submis- 
sive to  our  wills.  Like  the  wild  grains  and  fruits, 
the  more  able  they  are  to  serve  us,  the  less  able 
are  they  to  shift  for  themselves.  Those  persons  who 
201 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

look  upon  instinct  as  an  inflexible,  cast-iron  rule 
make  a  mistake.  No  live  thing  is  entirely  a  machine ; 
the  vital  forces  certainly  act  in  ways  quite  different 
from  the  mechanical;  and  yet  I  am  convinced  that 
the  behavior  of  the  lower  orders  is,  for  the  most  part, 
automatic. 

The  manlike  apes  undoubtedly  show  gleams  of 
what  may  fairly  be  called  reason;  and  trained  ele- 
phants develop  a  wit  that  at  least  gives  us  pause. 
One  has  to  be  careful  how  he  ascribes  reason  even 
to  the  highest  of  the  lower  animals,  because  there  are 
creatures  which  we  look  upon  as  much  lower  in  the 
scale  of  life  that  yet  exhibit  a  degree  of  intelligence 
apparently  on  a  par  with  reason. 

For  instance,  take  the  case  of  the  little  hermit 
crab.  This  creature  has  no  shell  of  its  own,  so  it  takes 
for  its  habitation  the  shell  of  some  other  sea-animal, 
often  that  of  the  whelk.  Upon  this  shell  the  sea- 
anemone  often  grows,  and  reaps  its  advantage  in 
being  moved  about  from  place  to  place  by  the  crab. 
And  the  crab  finds  its  advantage  in  the  copartner- 
ship, or  what  the  biologists  call  the  "  symbiotic  asso- 
ciation," in  the  tentacles  of  the  anemone  which  come 
down  near  the  head  of  the  crab  and  seem  to  afford 
it  some  measure  of  protection.  If  from  any  cause 
the  anemone  be  torn  away  from  the  shell,  what  hap- 
pens? Now  here  is  where  the  great  reasoning  powers 
of  the  hermit  come  in;  it  hunts  about  seeking  an- 
other anemone,  and  when  it  finds  it  growing  upon 
202 


UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 

some  object,  it  struggles  to  loosen  it,  and,  having 
done  so,  places  it  on  its  shell.  It  wants  the  protec- 
tion the  anemone  affords  it.  At  least  that  is  what  the 
biologists  say.  Now  whose  cat  or  dog  or  horse  does 
anything  half  as  wonderful  as  that?  And  yet  shall 
we  believe  that  this  all  but  brainless  crab  possesses 
the  faculty  of  reason? 

Many  incidents  might  be  cited  from  insect  life  that 
are  quite  as  wonderful.  The  ants  and  termites  do 
things  that  seem  to  imply  an  unmistakable  faculty 
of  reason,  at  the  same  time  that  they  do  things  or 
allow  things  that  seem  almost  idiotic,  as  when  a 
large  species  of  ant  allows  the  little  thief  ant  to  live 
in  its  nests  and  devour  its  eggs  or  larvae  and  never 
seems  to  know  what  is  going  on.  But  take  the  case 
of  the  ichneumon-fly,  which  lays  its  eggs  on  or 
near  some  caterpillar  or  beetle  grub.  When  the  eggs 
hatch,  the  young  ichneumon  burrows  into  the  body 
of  its  host,  feeding  on  its  tissues,  but  not  attacking 
such  organs  as  the  heart  or  the  nervous  ganglia. 
Why  not?  Because  injury  to  these  organs  "  might 
mean  immediate  death  to  the  host,"  and  conse- 
quently death  to  the  young  ichneumon.  Shall  we 
say,  then,  that  this  hungry  "milk-nosed  maggot" 
reasons?  Something  reasons,  or  has  reasoned  in 
this  case,  but  is  it  the  maggot? 

The  same  kind  of  reasoning  power  appears  to  be 
possessed  by  some  trees  and  plants.  Behold  the 
candelabra  tree  in  South  America  as  described 
203 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

by  Weismann,  which  protects  itself  from  its  great 
enemy,  the  leaf-cutting  ant,  by  harboring  inside  its 
hollow  branches  another  species  of  ant,  which  makes 
war  upon  the  leaf -cutters.  To  requite  these  ants  for 
the  protection  they  afford  the  tree,  and  to  attract 
them  to  it,  the  tree  has  developed  a  special  kind 
of  food  for  the  ants  at  the  base  of  the  leaf  petioles, 
just  where  the  danger  is  greatest.  There  are  said  to 
be  other  species  of  this  tree  that  do  not  develop  this 
food,  and  they  do  not  have  the  ants  to  protect  them. 
The  story  is  almost  incredible,  because  it  seems  to 
make  a  thinking,  planning,  reasoning  being  of  a  tree, 
but  the  fact  I  have  stated  seems  well  established. 
What  shall  we  say,  then?  Do  these  low  forms  of  life 
possess  man's  faculty  of  reason,  even  if  they  behave 
in  this  very  reasonable  way?  I  do  not  believe  it,  any 
more  than  I  believe  the  ingenious  mechanical  device 
of  the  orchid  to  secure  cross-fertilization  is  the  result 
of  reason  in  the  orchid.  We  must  call  it  by  some  other 
name.  Its  genesis  is  different.  Human  reason  pro- 
gresses, invents,  finds  new  ways.  It  is  like  man's 
two  hands,  which  can  be  turned  to  many  uses.  Man's 
organization  and  physical  powers  are  not  specialized 
as  the  lower  animals'  are;  he  is  free,  and  master  of 
many  fields;  his  superiority  is  mental,  not  structural 
like  that  of  the  bird.  The  specialization  is  in  his 
mental  powers,  the  power  of  reason,  which  gives 
him  dominion  as  the  wing  gives  dominion  to  the 
bird.  , 

204 


UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 

How  animal  knowledge  differs  from  human  knowl- 
edge is  well  illustrated  by  one  of  the  solitary  wasps 
that  Sir  John  Lubbock  tells  about.  When  this  wasp 
lays  an  egg,  she  knows  whether  the  egg  will  produce 
a  male  or  a  female;  the  female  grub  needs  more  food 
than  the  male,  and  the  wasp  always  puts  five  insects 
by  one,  and  ten  by  the  other.  And  yet  are  we  to  be- 
lieve that  she  counts  in  the  human  way?  I  cannot 
believe  that  she  does.  I  cannot  believe  that  she  has 
any  knowledge,  in  the  human  sense,  about  the  sex 
of  her  eggs.  She  does  this  thing  as  automatically 
and  unfailingly  as  a  machine.  Remove  any  of  her  in- 
sects, and  she  does  not  miss  them. 

How  the  lower  forms  of  life  —  ants,  bees,  bugs  — 
know  what  they  seem  to  know  is  a  mystery.  They 
know  without  having  to  learn  as  we  do.  They  know 
from  the  egg.  If  any  of  them  had  the  gift  of  reason, 
they  would  have  to  learn  in  the  human  way,  they 
would  have  to  travel  the  painful  road  of  experience, 
and  suffer  defeat  many  times.  But  they  know  not 
defeat,  they  know  not  failure,  they  know  neither  the 
perplexities  nor  the  triumphs  of  reason,  any  more 
than  the  elements  do.  Their  wisdom  comes  into  the 
world  with  them,  and  is  much  older  than  they  are. 

How  the  sacred  beetle  knows  that  the  grub 
which  hatches  from  its  egg  in  the  chamber  under- 
ground, will  need  air,  and  plans  her  cradle  accord- 
ingly; how  the  wasps  and  solitary  bees  happen  to 
be  such  expert  anatomists  that  they  know  the 
205 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

precise  spot  in  which  to  sting  the  spiders  and  lo- 
custs which  they  gather  for  their  young,  so  that 
the  poison  will  paralyze  but  not  kill  the  victim,  — 
how  they  know  that  the  rose-beetle  needs  to  be 
stung  in  one  point  only,  but  that  the  cricket  has 
three  nerve-centres  that  must  be  paralyzed,  and 
that  a  certain  caterpillar  requires  nine  strokes 
upon  nine  nerve-centres,  —  how  these  and  scores 
of  other  curious  facts  come  to  be  known  to  insects, 
is  past  finding  out.  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  ask 
how  the  organs  of  our  own  bodies  know  so  well 
how  to  perform  their  special  functions,  or  how  the 
plants  and  trees  know  the  best  way  to  scatter 
their  seeds  or  how  to  adapt  themselves  to  their 
environment. 

It  would  seem  as  if  all  nature  were  pervaded  with 
mind  or  mind-stuff.  As  science  has  to  assume  the 
existence  of  the  all-pervasive  ether  to  account  for 
many  physical  phenomena,  so,  it  appears  to  me,  we 
have  to  postulate  this  universal  mind  to  account 
for  what  we  find  all  around  us.  Things  are  so  wise! 
The  lowest  organisms  know  from  the  start  all  that 
it  concerns  them  to  know.  I  say  "  know,"  when  of 
course,  in  the  strict  sense,  there  is  no  knowledge  in- 
volved in  their  behavior;  it  is  only  a  question  of  an 
inborn  impulse.  But  whence  the  impulse?  We  only 
rest  with  words  when  we  say  it  is  the  nature  of 
organisms  to  do  so  and  so.  What  gave  the  particular 
bent  of  impulse  to  this  nature? 
206 


UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 

A  wild  plant  that  gets  a  late  start,  or  that  grows 
in  a  cold  climate,  will  make  less  length  of  stalk  than 
the  same  plant  when  it  gets  an  early  start,  or  when 
it  grows  in  a  warmer  climate,  reserving  its  energies 
to  produce  and  ripen  its  seeds.  If  it  can  be  shown 
that  all  this  is  the  result  of  mechanical  or  chemical 
laws,  I  still  want  to  know  why  these  laws  act  thus 
and  not  otherwise;  I  want  to  trace  to  its  source  this 
solicitude  about  the  seed. 

Is  not  man's  wisdom  also  older  than  himself?  Is 
not  every  pound  of  force  that  he  uses  through  his 
own  members,  or  through  the  mechanisms  that  he 
invents,  a  part  of  the  sum  total  of  the  force  of  the 
physical  universe?  In  like  manner,  may  we  not  infer 
that  every  spark  of  intelligence  he  shows,  or  is  capa- 
ble of  showing,  is  a  part  of,  or  a  manifestation  of,  the 
intelligence  that  pervades  all  things?  As  he  modi- 
fies and  uses  the  cosmic  force  through  his  various 
mechanical  devices,  so  the  cosmic  intelligence  is 
modified  and  individualized  through  his  reason  and 
personality.  The  inorganic  intelligence  of  universal 
nature,  so  to  speak,  becomes  organic  intelligence  in 
the  realm  of  life,  appearing  in  the  lower  orders  in 
what  we  call  instinct,  and  in  man  as  self-knowledge 
and  the  higher  consciousness. 

Our  cats  and  our  dogs  are,  as  it  were,  pulled  along 

in  our  wake.  They  learn  without  instruction  to  do 

certain  things  which  they  see  us  do,  if  these  things 

are  in  a  line  with  their  natural  activities,  such  as 

207 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

clawing,  pawing,  jumping,  and  seizing.  They  learn 
to  open  gates  and  doors  and  pull  cords,  and  many 
other  things.  I  recently  saw  a  common  cur  dog  that 
would  sing  when  told  to  do  so;  he  would  lift  up  his 
head,  and  send  forth  a  long,  low,  rather  musical 
howl.  This  came  easy  to  him,  as  howling  is  one  of 
the  dog's  natural  accomplishments.  A  dog  loves  to 
play  at  the  game  of  hunting  the  ball  or  the  stone 
which  you  throw,  because  this  act  is  in  a  line  with 
his  instincts,  and  he  never  tires  of  the  fun.  Of  course 
a  dog  can  be  trained  to  do  almost  anything,  but  to 
enlighten  his  mind  about  the  whys  and  the  where- 
fores of  the  thing  is  quite  another  matter.  You  can 
train  an  animal  to  act,  but  can  you  train  it  to  think? 
Of  course  your  dog  or  your  horse  could  not  be  trained 
to  do  its  trick  did  it  not  possess  certain  powers  that 
may  be  called  mental,  such  as  power  of  attention, 
power  of  imitation,  power  of  association,  and  capa- 
city to  feel  a  stronger  will.  But  these  powers  are  all 
phases  of  the  animal's  instinctive  activities,  and  do 
not  presuppose  judgment  or  reason.  When  we  train 
an  animal,  we  make,  as  it  were,  an  artificial  channel 
for  its  mental  currents  to  flow  in,  and  they  flow  there 
without  conscious  choice  or  self-direction,  as  water 
flows  in  the  channel  we  make  for  it.  How  helpless 
they  feel  themselves  to  be,  poor  things!  If  the 
lions  knew  their  own  strength,  how  they  could  defy 
their  trainers !  But  they  have  no  self-knowledge  or 
self-thought. 

208 


UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 

A  recent  nature  writer  says  he  can  understand  an 
animal  only  by  putting  himself  for  the  moment  in 
the  animal's  place.  Will  he  not  in  that  case  make  the 
animal  think  and  reason  as  he  does?  Let  him  put 
himself  in  the  animal's  place  and  remember  what  he 
does  from  habit,  his  unconscious  automatic  acts,  and 
then  he  will  get  some  insight  into  animal  psychology. 
When  we  do  a  thing  from  pure  habit  and  uncon- 
sciously, we  act  as  the  animals  do,  without  thought 
or  reason,  we  know  not  what  we  do;  like  a  child 
when  it  sucks,  or  a  bird  when  it  sings. 

As  we  go  our  round  of  duties  from  day  to  day,  we 
do  many  little  things  without  thinking  about  them 
at  all.  We  shut  the  door  behind  us,  we  wind  our 
watches,  we  put  out  the  light,  or  similar  slight  acts; 
we  do  things  "  absent-mindedly,"  as  we  say,  and  we 
do  them  correctly.  We  know  what  wonderful  feats 
sleep-walkers  sometimes  perform,  and  frogs  will  do 
certain  acts  intelligently  with  most  of  their  brains 
removed.  The  animal's  life  is  evidently  a  kind  of 
sleep-walking,  or  absent-mindedness,  that  is,  when 
compared  with  our  conscious  self -direction.  We  are 
awake  and  know  that  we  know,  but  the  dog  or  the 
horse  is  not  aware  of  his  own  knowledge. 

I  do  not  think  the  position  is  tenable  which  Jordan 
and  Kellogg  take  in  their  work  entitled  "  Evolution 
and  Animal  Life,"  namely,  that  it  is  a  power  of  choice 
that  distinguishes  reason  from  instinct.  A  hunted 
animal  may  take  this  course  or  that  without  any  act 
209 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  reflection  or  reasoning  as  to  which  may  prove  the 
more  advantageous.  You  may  see  a  robin  exploring  a 
tree, looking  for  a  place  to  build  her  nest;  she  chooses 
this  limb  or  that;  does  she  therefore  reason  about 
the  matter?  In  building  it  she  takes  one  straw  and 
rejects  another;  is  she  therefore  arguing  with  herself 
all  the  time?  One  place  and  one  weed  stalk  pleases 
her,  and  the  other  does  not.  That,  I  fancy,  is  all 
there  is  to  it.  Offer  a  baby  two  different-colored  balls, 
and  it  will  choose  between  them.  Is  this  choice  an 
act  of  reason? 

These  authors  tell  an  interesting  incident  of  two 
monkeys,  one  of  which  was  of  an  egg-eating  species 
and  the  other  of  a  nut-eating  species.  He  of  the  egg- 
eating  race  took  the  first  egg  he  had  ever  seen  and 
proceeded  to  crack  it  and  suck  out  its  contents,  after 
the  manner  of  his  tribe.  The  other  one  cracked  his 
egg  as  if  it  were  a  nut,  and  the  inside  ran  out  and 
fell  upon  the  ground.  After  looking  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment in  a  bewildered  way,  he  scooped  it  up,  sand  and 
all,  with  his  hands  and  swallowed  it,  and  then  ate 
the  shell  also.  Then  the  writer  makes  the  astonishing 
statement  that  this  was  an  act  of  reason  on  the  part 
of  that  monkey!  Instinct  failed  him,  and  reason 
came  to  his  aid  and  prompted  him  to  devour  the 
egg !  Is  it  not  much  easier  to  fancy  that  an  instinct 
came  to  his  aid  that  was  much  older  than  his  special 
nut-eating  instinct  —  the  simple  eating  instinct 
itself?  The  egg  proved  to  be  a  kind  of  food  that  ap- 
210 


UNTAUGHT  WISDOM 

pealed  to  him,  and  he  swallowed  it.  It  was  no  more 
an  act  of  reason  than  was  that  of  the  other  monkey. 
If  I  myself  were  offered  a  new  viand  or  a  new  fruit, 
my  eating  of  it  would  not  be  an  act  of  reason,  but 
the  prompting  of  taste  and  appetite.  I  once  saw  my 
dog  eat  a  beefsteak  mushroom,  but  I  am  sure  it  was 
not  his  reason  that  prompted  him  to  do  so,  but  the 
good  smell  of  the  mushroom.  A  coon  knows  how  to 
suck  an  egg  because  he  comes  of  a  race  of  egg-suckers, 
but  the  tame  coon  I  had  in  my  youth  knew  instantly 
what  to  do  with  the  first  pancake  it  ever  saw.  When 
we  know  not  what  we  do,  when  we  act  from  an  im- 
pulse or  without  thinking,  then  we  act  as  do  the  ani- 
mals. When  we  stop  to  consider,  or  act  from  thought 
or  judgment,  then  we  are  rational  beings. 


XI 

THE  BOW  IN  THE  CLOUDS 

WHOSE  heart  does  not  leap  up,  be  he  child 
or  man,  when  he  beholds  a  rainbow  in  the 
sky?  It  is  the  most  spectacular  as  it  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful thing  in  the  familiar  daily  nature  about  us.  It 
has  all  the  qualities  that  are  most  calculated  to 
surprise  and  delight  us  —  suddenness,  brilliancy, 
delicacy,  sharp  contrasts,  and  the  primal  cosmic 
form,  the  circle.  No  eye  so  dull  but  turns  to  it  with 
pleasure  —  a  painted  triumphal  arch,  yet  as  intan- 
gible as  a  dream,  suddenly  springing  athwart  the 
dark  storm  cloud.  Born  of  the  familiar  and  univer- 
sal elements,  the  sun  and  the  rain,  it  is  yet  as  elusive 
and  spectral  and  surprising  as  if  it  were  a  revelation 
from  some  other  sphere.  It  is  a  kind  of  incarnation 
of  the  spirit  of  beauty  —  a  veritable  wraith  that 
hovers  and  retreats  before  you  like  an  angelic  visi- 
tant. It  is  fixed  there  against  the  cloud,  irrespective 
of  the  falling  motion  of  the  drops  of  rain  through 
which  it  is  formed.  They  fall,  but  it  does  not  fall. 
They  are  swayed  or  whirled  by  the  wind,  but  the 
bow  keeps  its  place.  That  band  of  prismatic  colors 
is  in  no  sense  a  part  of  the  rain,  and  the  rain  knows 
it  not.  It  springs  out  in  the  rear  of  the  retreating 


THE  BOW  IN  THE  CLOUDS 

storm,  but  the  storm  knows  it  not.  The  eye  knows 
it  not,  and  sees  it  not  unless  placed  at  a  certain  def- 
inite point  in  relation  to  it.  The  point  of  view  makes 
the  bow.  No  two  persons  see  precisely  the  same  rain- 
bow; there  are  as  many  bows  as  there  are  beholders. 

Sometimes  we  see  two  rainbows,  as  if  nature  were 
in  an  extra  happy  mood.  In  the  second  one  the  colors 
are  in  reverse  order  from  that  of  the  first.  The  first 
is  due  to  the  rays  of  the  sun  falling  upon  the  outer 
portions  of  the  drops  and  suffering  two  refractions 
and  one  reflection  before  reaching  the  eye,  while  the 
second  bow  is  due  to  the  rays  falling  on  the  inner  side 
of  the  drops  and  suffering  two  refractions  and  two 
reflections. 

The  rainbow  is  an  apparition  of  color  and  form  in 
the  air.  It  is  not  so  much  an  entity  as  the  radiant 
shadow  of  an  entity  —  fugitive,  unreal,  phantasmal, 
unapproachable,  yet  as  constant  as  the  sun  and  rain. 

The  sunset  is  afar  off,  painted  upon  the  distant 
clouds,  but  the  rainbow  comes  down  to  earth  and 
spans  the  next  field  or  valley.  It  hovers  about  the 
playing  fountain;  it  beams  out  from  the  swaying 
spray  of  the  cataract.  It  is  as  familiar  as  the  day, 
yet  as  elusive  as  a  spirit,  —  a  bow  of  promise,  in- 
deed, —  a  symbol  of  the  peace,  the  moderation,  and 
the  beneficence  in  nature  that  brought  man  upon  the 
earth  and  now  sustains  him  here. 

What  aeons  must  have  passed  in  the  history 
of  the  earth  before  the  elements  reached  that  har- 
213 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

mony  and  equipoise  which  the  rainbow  indicates! 
—  the  sunshine  following  the  shower,  the  clearing 
up  of  the  weather,  the  obscurity  and  the  turmoil  suc- 
ceeded by  a  cleansed  and  illuminated  air.  What 
aeons  of  warring  elements  before  the  first  bit  of  blue 
sky  appeared !  Countless  ages  of  mist  and  floods  and 
darkness  and  sulphurous  clouds  —  a  rising-up  of  the 
deep  and  a  falling-down  of  the  heavens  —  before 
the  earth  saw  the  first  smile  of  clear  sky  and  the 
first  bow  of  promise  set  in  the  clouds.  Not  till  the 
cooling  rains  began  to  fall  could  life  appear  upon 
the  land;  not  till  the  sun  had  penetrated  the  mists 
and  gases  that  must  have  enveloped  the  earth  for 
millions  of  years,  could  the  rainbow  be  set  on  high. 

It  is  a  pleasing  fancy,  and  it  may  be  a  scientific 
fact,  that  there  were  no  flowering  plants  till  the 
rainbow  appeared.  Of  course  the  laws  of  optics  have 
always  been  the  same,  but  the  conditions  deter- 
mining their  operation  as  we  see  them  are  recent, 
geologically  speaking.  The  many-colored  flowering 
plants  did  not  appear  till  long  after  the  overburdened 
and  superheated  air  had  been  cleared  of  its  vapor 
and  carbon  dioxide  by  the  rank  vegetable  growths 
that  gave  us  our  coal  beds,  that  is,  till  long  after 
Carboniferous  times  —  probably  late  in  Mesozoic 
times.  With  clear  skies  and  sunshine  the  develop- 
ment of  bright  flower-petals  would  take  place,  and 
with  these  conditions  the  bow  would  appear  in  the 
clouds.  Maybe  the  rose  and  the  rainbow  were  born 
214 


THE  BOW  IN  THE  CLOUDS 

on  the  selfsame  day.  At  any  rate,  behold  the  bow 
like  a  flag  flung  out  in  a  festive  and  holiday  spirit, 
that  cheers  and  stimulates  all  beholders!  Festivals 
and  holidays  are  exceptional  in  our  lives,  and  there 
may  be  nothing  strictly  analogous  to  them  in  the 
operation  of  the  elemental  forces,  but  this  triumphal 
arch  so  suddenly  sprung  across  the  dark  abyss  of 
the  storm-clouds  certainly  affects  the  beholder  as 
a  sign  of  gayety  and  peace  and  good  will  in  nature. 
The  sunshine  itself  might  indicate  this,  but  the  bow 
emphasizes  it  and  heralds  it  as  with  banners. 

The  rainbow  is  of  the  earth,  it  is  dependent  upon 
the  familiar  rain,  it  hangs  over  the  near  field  or  grove, 
and  yet  it  is  from  out  the  heavens;  it  brings  the 
cosmic  circle,  the  perfect  curve  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
and  paints  it  upon  the  shifting  mist  of  the  storm. 
Not  often  in  the  organic  world  does  nature  repeat 
the  precision  of  her  astronomic  curves  and  circles; 
in  the  wavelet  which  a  dropped  pebble  sets  going  in 
a  pool  of  water,  in  the  human  eye  and  in  the  eyes  of 
some  of  the  lower  animals,  and  in  some  vegetable 
forms  does  she  draw  the  perfect  curve.  Astronomy 
comes  down  to  earth  now  and  then  and  casts  its 
halo  about  familiar  things. 

The  rainbow  shall  stand  to  me  for  the  heaven-born 
in  nature  and  in  life  —  the  unexpected  beauty  and 
perfection  that  is  linked  with  the  eternal  cosmic  laws. 
Nature  is  not  all  solids  and  fluids  and  gases,  she  is 
not  all  of  this  earth;  she  is  of  the  heavens  as  well. 
215 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

She  is  of  the  remote  and  the  phenomenal;  seen 
through  man's  eyes  she  is  touched  by  a  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land.  Neither  is  life  all  of  the 
material,  the  tangible,  the  demonstrable;  the  witch- 
ery of  the  ideal,  the  spiritual,  at  times  hangs  the  bow 
of  promise  against  the  darkest  hours. 

I  do  not  mean  to  be  fantastic,  or  to  give  the  fact 
more  sail  than  it  can  carry,  yet  I  cannot  but  feel 
that  the  rainbow  has  a  deep  significance,  and  in  its 
flitting,  intangible,  transmundane,  yet  beautiful  and 
constant  character,  may  well  be  a  symbol  of  much 
that  there  is  in  nature  and  in  life. 


XII 
THE  ROUND  WORLD 

I  HAVE  a  neighbor,  a  man  now  over  eighty  years 
of  age,  who  has  a  philosophy  of  his  own  about 
most  things,  and  who  does  not  believe  that  the  earth 
is  round,  nor  that  it  turns  round;  and  he  can  prove 
it  to  you,  to  his  own  satisfaction,  with  his  level  on 
the  floor.  I  confess  I  sympathize  with  him,  and  half 
hoped  he  could  prove  it  to  me,  as  I  am  turned 
topsy-turvy  every  time  I  try  to  see  myself  on  a  round 
globe;  but  I  am  also  bound  to  confess  that  he  did 
not  quite  convince  me. 

I  fancy  that  all  persons  who  think  much  about 
the  matter  have  trouble  to  adjust  their  notion  of  a 
round  world  to  their  actual  experience.  After  we 
have  sailed  round  the  world  and  seen  its  round 
shadow  eclipsing  the  moon,  and  seen  the  ships  drop 
below  the  horizon  at  sea,  we  still  fail  to  see  ourselves 
(at  least  I  do)  as  living  on  the  surface  of  a  sphere;  by 
no  force  of  imagination  can  I  do  so.  The  eye  reports 
only  a  boundless  plain,  diversified  by  hills  and  moun- 
tains; and  travel  we  never  so  far,  we  cannot  find  the 
under  side  of  the  sphere — we  can  never  see  ourselves 
as  we  see  the  house-fly  crawling  over  the  side  of  the 
globe  in  our  room,  and  we  wonder  why  we  do  not 
217 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

drop  off  or  see  the  sky  beneath  us.  Yet  when  we 
reach  the  South  Pole,  the  sky  is  still  overhead, 
just  as  at  the  North.  This  is  the  contradiction  that 
staggers  our  senses. 

The  truth  is  that  as  dwellers  upon  the  earth,  we 
are  completely  under  the  law  of  the  sphere,  so  com- 
pletely that  we  cannot  get  away  from  it  even  in 
imagination,  without  seeing  ourselves  involved  in 
a  world  of  hopeless  contradictions.  The  law  of  the 
sphere  is  that  there  is  no  up  and  no  down,  no  over 
and  no  under,  no  rising  and  no  falling,  apart  from 
itself.  Away  from  the  earth,  in  empty  sidereal 
space,  we  should  be  absolutely  lost,  and  should  not 
know  whether  we  were  right-side-up  or  not,  stand- 
ing on  our  heads  or  our  heels,  because  we  must  ex- 
perience a  negation  of  all  direction  as  we  know  it 
here.  We  might  know  our  right  hand  from  our  left 
hand,  but  can  we  picture  to  ourselves  whether  we 
should  be  falling  up  or  falling  down,  whether  the 
stars  should  be  over  us  or  under  us? 

Or  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and  fancy  yourself  at 
the  centre  of  the  earth;  which  way  would  your  feet 
point,  up  or  down?  Which  way  would  things  fall? 
Try  to  imagine  the  dilemma  you  would  be  in,  if  you 
could  tunnel  through  the  earth,  when  you  came  out 
on  the  other  side !  And  what  is  curious  about  it  all 
is  that  our  experience  with  balls  and  spheres,  little 
and  big,  does  not  prepare  us  for  these  contradic- 
tions. Every  globe  we  see,  even  the  sun  and  moon, 
218 


THE  ROUND  WORLD 

has  an  upper  and  an  under  side.  If  we  fancy  our- 
selves on  the  moon  we  see  the  heavens  above  us  at 
the  North  Pole,  and  below  us  at  the  South.  Is  not  the 
fly  crawling  over  the  under  side  of  the  globe  in  our 
room  in  a  reversed  position?  Yet  we  know  from 
actual  experience  that,  go  where  we  will  on  the 
earth's  surface,  we  are  right-side-up.  We  find  no 
under  side.  The  heavens  are  everywhere  above 
us,  and  the  ground  is  beneath  us,  and  falling  off  the 
sphere  seems  and  is  impossible.  We  nowhere  find 
ourselves  in  the  position  the  Man  in  the  Moon 
would  appear  to  be  in  if  we  could  see  him  searching 
for  the  South  Pole.  South  Pole  and  North  Pole  are 
both  the  same  so  far  as  our  relation  to  them  is  con- 
cerned. 

The  size  of  the  globe,  be  it  little  or  big,  cannot 
alter  the  law  of  the  globe.  If  we  were  to  make  a 
globe  ten  miles  or  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  miles  in 
diameter,  it  would  still  have  a  top  and  a  bottom 
side,  and  if  we  placed  the  figure  of  a  man  at  the  South 
Pole  his  head  would  point  down  and  we  should  have 
to  tie  him  on. 

When  we  get  a  flying-machine  that  will  take  us  to 
the  moon,  I  shall  want  to  alight  well  up  on  the  top 
side  for  fear  I  shall  fall  off.  In  fact,  landing  on  the 
under  side  would  seem  a  physical  impossibility.  I 
try  to  fancy  how  it  would  seem  if  we  could  alight 
there.  Of  course,  the  sky  would  still  be  overhead 
and  we  should  look  up  to  that  bigger  moon,  the  earth, 
219 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

from  which  we  had  just  come  on  an  upward  flight. 
We  go  up  to  the  moon  or  to  Mars,  and  we  turn 
round  and  look  up  to  the  point  of  our  departure !  It 
is  the  apparent  contradiction  that  I  cannot  adjust  my 
mind  to;  that  up  and  down,  over  and  under,  can  be 
abolished,  that  they  are  only  forms  of  our  experi- 
ence, and  that  out  in  sidereal  space  they  would  have 
no  meaning;  that  is  something  hard  for  us  to  realize. 
We  apprehend  it  without  comprehending  it.  Are 
all  our  notions  thus  relative?  The  globe  is  bigger 
than  our  minds.  We  cannot  turn  the  cosmic  laws 
round  in  our  thoughts.  We  are  adjusted  to  the 
sphere,  not  it  to  us. 

If  the  moon  were  to  break  from  its  orbit  and  fall 
to  the  earth,  its  course  would  be  downward,  like  that 
of  the  shooting  stars.  How  would  it  seem  to  people 
on  the  moon,  if  there  were  people  there? 

This  sense  of  contradiction  that  we  feel  in  trying 
to  adjust  our  minds  to  the  idea  of  a  round  world, 
may  be  analogous  to  the  difficulty  we  have  in  trying 
to  reach  an  intellectual  concept  of  the  universe  as 
a  whole,  or  of  certain  of  its  parts  and  processes, 
such  as  the  question  of  the  nature  and  origin  of  life, 
or  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Our  minds  are  so 
constituted  and  disciplined  by  our  experience  that 
we  look  for  the  causes  of  every  event  or  thing.  We 
make  a  chain  of  causes,  the  end  of  which  we  never 
reach.  A  causeless  event,  or  thing,  we  cannot  think 
of  any  more  than  we  can  think  of  a  stick  with  only 
220 


THE  ROUND  WORLD 

one  end.  God  is  unthinkable,  because  He  is  cause- 
less. 

The  earth  is  so  big  that  all  our  acquaintance  with 
size  avails  us  not  —  it  is  infinite  to  our  senses  —  the 
question  of  size  or  of  form  never  occurs.  We  cannot 
think  "earth  "  as  it  is,  any  more  than  we  can  "be- 
coming," or  "  evolution,"  or  "  motion."  When  we 
think  "earth,"  we  see  a  globe  like  the  moon,  or 
larger,  with  a  top  and  bottom  side;  the  earth  has 
no  sides,  no  boundary  lines,  or  form  bounded  by 
right  lines;  it  is  all  surface  to  which  there  are  no 
boundaries. 

To  our  senses  the  bullet-like  speed  of  the  earth 
through  space  amounts  to  absolute  rest,  and  its 
revolution  on  its  axis  is  motion  on  such  a  scale  that 
we  are  quite  unconscious  of  it.  Just  as  its  spherical 
shape,  to  our  senses,  becomes  a  boundless  plain,  so 
its  huge  silent  motion  through  the  great  void  is  equiv- 
alent to  eternal  rest.  We  are  only  conscious  of  mo- 
tion when  we  see  or  feel  something  that  is  not  in 
motion,  but  on  this  earth,  where  is  the  fixed  point? 
All  is  fixed,  yet  all  is  in  motion.  Drifting  with  the 
tide  on  the  river,  your  boat  seems  at  rest  till  you 
look  shoreward;  but  drifting  on  the  earth,  where  is 
the  shore  to  look  to?  Those  bright  points  in  the  heav- 
ens are  drifting  also,  but  they  are  so  far  from  us 
that  we  cannot  gauge  our  yearly  motion  by  them, 
nor  theirs  by  ours;  with  reference  to  them,  we  seem 
anchored  in  absolute  space.  Our  diurnal  motion 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

reveals  itself  only  as  a  slow  wheeling  of  the  heavens 
around  us.  It  is  science  that  opens  our  mental  vision 
to  the  true  character  of  the  earth  we  inhabit,  and 
corrects  the  false  impressions  of  our  senses.  So  it  is 
philosophy  that  sets  us  right  about  the  world  within 
us,  and  shows  the  true  relation  of  our  thoughts  and 
experiences  to  larger  impersonal  truths. 

We  cannot  penetrate  the  final  mystery  of  things, 
because  behind  every  mystery  is  another  mystery. 
What  causes  life?  What  started  evolution?  Why  are 
you  and  I  here?  Who  or  what  ordered  the  world  as 
we  see  it?  We  cannot  help  asking  these  questions, 
though  we  see  when  we  try  to  take  the  first  step  that 
they  are  unanswerable.  When  we  find  the  end  or  the 
under  side  of  the  sphere,  we  may  hope  to  answer 
them.  There  is  no  ending,  and  no  beginning,  there 
is  no  limit  to  space  or  to  time,  though  we  make  our 
heads  ache  trying  to  think  how  such  can  be  the  case. 
There  is  no  final  Cause  in  any  sense  that  comes 
within  the  range  of  our  experience  in  this  world.  We 
are  prisoners  of  the  sphere  on  which  we  live,  and 
its  bewildering  contradictions  are  reflected  in  our 
mental  lives  as  well. 


XIII 
A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

EVERY  farm  boy  knows  how  much  wild  life 
ebbs  and  flows  about  a  country  hay-barn  the 
whole  year  round.  It  is  a  point  in  the  landscape 
where  the  wild  and  the  domestic  meet.  The  foxes 
prowl  around  it  in  winter,  the  squirrels  visit  it,  mice 
and  rats  make  their  homes  in  it,  and  cut  their  roads 
through  the  hay.  In  summer  swallows,  phcebe- 
birds,  and  robins  love  to  shelter  their  nests  be- 
neath its  roof,  bumblebees  build  their  rude  combs 
in  the  abandoned  mice-nests,  and  yellow-jackets 
often  hang  their  paper  habitations  from  its  timbers. 
For  several  summers,  as  I  have  said  in  a  former 
chapter,  I  have  had  my  study  in  one  of  these 
empty  or  partly  filled  hay-barns  on  the  farm  where 
I  was  born,  and  the  wild  life  about  me  that  used 
to  interest  me  as  a  boy  now  engages  me  as  a  stu- 
dent and  observer  of  outdoor  nature.  While  I  am 
busy  with  my  books  and  my  writing,  the  birds  are 
busy  with  their  nest-building  or  brood-rearing.  Now, 
in  early  July,  a  pair  of  barn  swallows  have  a  nest 
in  the  peak  at  one  end,  and  a  pair  of  phoebe-birds 
have  a  nest  in  the  peak  at  the  other  end.  The 
phcebes,  remembering  perhaps  their  ill  luck  last 
223 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

year,  when  their  nest  and  eggs  were  buried  by  the 
hay-gatherers,  have  established  themselves  in  a 
swallow's  old  nest  far  above  any  possibility  of 
being  engulfed  by  the  rising  tide  of  hay.  They  have 
evidently  refurnished  the  nest,  but  its  exterior  is 
quite  destitute  of  the  moss  with  which  they  always 
face  their  structures.  I  see  the  row  of  heads  of  the 
young  above  the  brim,  as  I  see  a  row  of  heads  of 
young  swallows  above  the  brim  of  their  nest.  The 
swallows  evidently  look  upon  the  phoebes  as  in- 
truders. Maybe  the  fact  that  the  phcebes  have 
appropriated  a  swallow's  last  year's  nest  rankles  a 
little.  At  any  rate,  many  times  during  the  day  the 
male  swallow  swoops  spitefully  down  at  the  phcebes 
as  they  sit  upon  the  beams  hesitating  in  my  pres- 
ence to  approach  their  nest  with  food  in  their 
beaks. 

The  swallow  is  not  armed  for  battle;  in  both  beak 
and  claw  he  is  about  the  weakest  of  the  weak;  only 
in  speed  and  skill  of  wing  is  he  almost  unrivaled, 
and  he  flashes  those  long,  slender,  sabre-colored 
wings  about  the  heads  of  his  plain  unwelcome  neigh- 
bors in  a  way  that  keeps  them  on  the  alert,  but 
never  provokes  them  to  retaliation.  The  phcebes  in- 
cline this  way  and  that  to  avoid  the  blows,  but  make 
no  sound  and  raise  no  wing  in  defense.  They  seem 
to  know  what  a  big  "  bluff  "  the  swallows  are  putting 
up,  or  else  how  unequal  a  wing  contest  with  them 
would  be. 

224 


A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

The  phoebes  are  much  more  sensitive  to  my  pres- 
ence than  are  the  swallows;  they  will  not  betray  the 
secret  of  their  nest  to  me  while  I  am  watching  them. 
Whereas  the  swallows  sweep  in  boldly  over  my  head 
through  the  wide-open  doors,  and,  in  a  swift  upward 
curve,  touch  at  the  nest  and  are  out  again  like  spirits, 
the  phoebes  enter  slyly,  through  small  openings  in 
the  weather-boards,  and  alight  upon  a  beam  and  look 
the  ground  over  before  they  approach  the  nest. 

The  other  day  in  my  walk  I  came  upon  two 
phoebes'  nests  under  overhanging  rocks,  both  with 
half -fledged  young  in  them,  and  in  neither  case  were 
the  parent  birds  in  evidence.  They  did  not  give 
their  secret  away  by  setting  up  the  hue  and  cry  that 
nesting  birds  usually  set  up  on  such  occasions.  I 
finally  saw  them,  as  silent  as  shadows,  perched  near 
by,  with  food  in  their  beaks,  which  they  finally 
swallowed  as  my  stay  was  prolonged.  And  the  nests, 
both  on  a  level  with  my  eye,  were  apparently  filled 
only  with  a  motionless  mass  of  bluish  mould.  As  I 
gently  touched  them,  instead  of  four  or  five  heads 
with  open  mouths  springing  up,  the  young  only 
settled  lower  in  the  nest  and  disposed  themselves  in 
a  headless,  shapeless  mass.  The  phoebe  is  evidently 
a  very  cautious  bird,  though  none  is  more  familiar 
about  our  porches  and  outbuildings. 

What  a  contrast  they  present  in  habits  and  man- 
ners with  the  swallows !  —  the  plebeian  phoebe,  plain 
of  dress,  homely  of  speech,  with  neither  grace  of  form 
225 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

nor  of  movement,  yet  endeared  to  us  by  a  hundred 
associations.  The  swallow  has  the  grace  of  form  and 
power  of  wing  of  the  tireless  sea-birds,  and  is  almost 
as  helpless  and  awkward  on  its  feet  as  are  some  of  the 
latter.  The  pair  I  am  watching  flash  out  and  in  the 
old  barn  like  streaks  of  steel-blue  lightning.  I  watch 
them  hawking  for  insects  over  a  broad  meadow  of 
timothy  grass  that  slopes  up  to  the  woods  that 
crown  the  hill.  The  mother  bird  is  the  more  indus- 
trious; she  makes  at  least  three  times  as  many  trips 
in  the  course  of  an  hour  as  does  her  mate;  whether 
she  returns  with  as  loaded  a  beak  or  not,  I  have  no 
means  of  knowing,  but  would  wager  that  she  does. 
Among  nearly  all  species  of  birds  the  mother  is  the 
main  bread-winner.  I  have  recently  had  under 
observation  a  nest  of  young  bluebirds  in  a  cavity 
made  by  a  downy  woodpecker  in  a  small  birch-tree, 
a  section  of  which  I  brought  from  the  woods  last 
fall  and  fastened  up  to  one  corner  of  my  porch.  The 
mother  bird  had  entire  care  of  the  brood,  bringing 
food  every  few  minutes  all  day  long.  Not  till  the 
last  day  that  the  young  were  in  the  nest  did  the  male 
appear,  and  then  he  took  entire  charge,  and  the 
mother  either  went  off  on  a  holiday,  or  else  some  un- 
toward fate  befell  her. 

I  look  up  from  my  writing  scores  of  times  during 

the  day  to  see  the  two  swallows  coursing  low  over 

the  meadow  of  rippling  daisies  and  timothy,  tacking, 

darting,  rising,  falling,  now  turning  abruptly,  now 

226 


A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

sweeping  in  wide  circles,  and,  having  secured  the 
invisible  morsel,  coming  down  grade  into  the  barn 
with  the  speed  of  arrows.  A  row  of  expectant  heads, 
four  or  five  of  them,  arranged  along  the  wide  open- 
ing of  the  nest  await  them.  It  is  touch  and  go, 
no  tarrying;  the  gnat  or  the  fly  is  deposited  in  an 
open  mouth  as  swiftly  as  it  is  caught.  The  beaks  of 
all  the  young  open  as  the  swift  wings  of  the  parent 
bird  are  heard,  and  a  subdued  chipperingand  squeak- 
ing follows.  That  there  is  any  method  in  the  feed- 
ing, or  that  they  are  fed  in  regular  order,  I  cannot 
believe.  Which  of  the  young  will  get  the  next  mor- 
sel is  probably  a  matter  of  chance,  but  doubtless  the 
result  averages  up  very  evenly  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  or  two. 

The  wing-power  expended  by  the  parent  birds  in 
this  incessant  and  rapid  flight  must  be  very  great, 
and  one  would  think  that  all  the  insects  captured 
would  be  required  to  keep  it  up.  How  fine  and  slight 
their  prey  seems  to  be!  I  may  follow  their  course 
through  the  meadow  with  my  head  about  as  high 
above  the  grass  as  is  their  flight,  and  not  see  any- 
thing but  an  occasional  butterfly  or  two  —  a  game 
the  swallows  are  not  looking  for.  They  hunt  out 
something  invisible  to  my  eyes,  something  almost 
as  intangible  as  the  drifting  flower  pollen.  Probably 
the  finer  it  is,  the  more  potent  it  is;  a  meal  of  gnats 
may  be  highly  concentrated  food.  Now  and  then 
they  probably  capture  a  house-fly  or  other  large  in- 
227 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

sect.  To  know  how  full  the  summer  air  is  of  fine, 
gauzy  insects,  look  toward  the  sun  of  an  afternoon 
where  you  have  the  shadow  of  a  wood  for  a  back- 
ground. The  sunlight  falling  on  the  wings  of  the 
tiny  creatures  seems  greatly  to  magnify  them,  and 
one  sees  where  the  speeding  swallows  reap  much  of 
their  harvest. 

The  phcebe,  and  all  the  true  flycatchers,  hunt  in 
a  much  less  haphazard  way;  like  the  hawks,  they  see 
their  prey  before  they  make  their  swoop;  they  are 
true  sportsmen  and  their  aim  is  sure.  Perched  here 
and  there,  they  wait  for  their  game  to  appear.  But 
the  swallows  hurl  themselves  through  the  air  with 
tremendous  speed  and  capture  what  chances  to 
cross  their  paths  —  a  feat  quite  impossible  to  the 
regular  flycatcher. 

On  calm  days  they  hawk  high;  on  windy  days 
their  prey  flies  near  the  earth  and  they  hunt  low. 
How  random  and  wayward  their  course  is,  but 
what  freedom  and  power  of  wing  it  discloses!  A 
poet  has  called  them  skaters  in  the  field  of  air,  but 
what  skater  can  perform  such  gyrations  or  attain 
such  speed?  Occasionally  on  windy  days  they  seem 
to  dip  and  turn,  or  check  themselves,  as  if  they  saw 
an  individual  insect  and  paused  to  seize  it.  But  for 
the  most  part  they  seem  to  strain  the  air  through 
their  beaks  and  seize  what  it  leaves  them. 

As  the  days  pass,  the  young  swallows  begin  to 
grow  restless.  I  see  them  stretching  their  wings,  with 
228 


A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

their  bodies  half  out  of  the  nest.  A  day  or  two  later 
I  hear  a  fluttering  sound  over  my  head  and  look  up  to 
see  one  of  them  clinging  to  the  outside  of  the  nest 
and  exercising  his  wings  vigorously ;  for  a  few  seconds 
he  clings  there  and  makes  his  wings  hum;  the  flying 
impulse  is  working  on  him,  and  soon  it  will  launch 
him  forth  upon  the  air.  Two  or  three  times  a  day 
I  see  this  feat  repeated.  The  young  are  doubtless 
all  taking  turns  in  trying  their  wings  to  see  if  they 
are  as  recommended.  Then  the  parents  come  in, 
evidently  with  empty  beaks,  and  take  turns  in  hov- 
ering in  front  of  the  nest  and  saying,  "  Wit,  wit," 
approvingly  and  encouragingly,  and  then  flying 
about  the  empty  barn  or  making  a  dash  at  phoabe 
as  she  sits  with  flipping  tail  on  a  beam.  Presently 
they  resume  their  feeding.  The  next  day  there  is 
more  wing  exercise  by  the  young,  and  more  hovering 
and  chirping  about  the  nest  by  the  parents.  Some- 
times the  latter  sit  quietly  upon  a  beam,  and  then 
the  male  flies  up  and  clings  for  a  moment  to  the 
side  of  the  nest,  and  squeaks  softly  and  lovingly.  I 
think  the  great  event,  the  first  flight  of  the  young,  is 
near  at  hand.  I  go  to  dinner  and  when  I  return  and 
am  about  to  enter  the  barn,  the  mother  swallow 
sweeps  down  toward  me  and  calls  "Sleet,  sleet," 
which  I  take  to  be  her  way  of  saying  "Scat,  scat," 
and  I  know  something  has  happened.  Looking  up 
to  the  roof,  I  see  one  of  the  young  perched  upon  it 
a  few  inches  from  the  lower  edge.  He  looksscared  and 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

ill  at  ease.  I  cast  a  pebble  above  him  and  away  he 
goes  into  the  free  air,  his  parents  wheeling  about 
him,  and  leading  him  on  in  an  evident  state  of  ex- 
citement. How  well  he  used  his  wings  on  that  first 
flight,  swooping  and  soaring  with  but  little  appear- 
ance of  awkwardness  or  hesitation '  After  a  few  mo- 
ments he  comes  back  to  the  barn  roof  and  alights  on 
the  other  side  beyond  my  sight.  During  the  after- 
noon the  other  three  venture  out  at  intervals  and 
fly  about  the  interior  of  the  barn  for  some  time 
before  venturing  outside,  their  parents  flying  with 
them  and  cheering  encouragingly. 

When  once  launched  on  the  wing,  the  next  great 
problem  with  them  seemed  to  be  how  to  alight.  It 
was  evidently  a  trying  problem.  They  would  make 
feints  at  stopping  upon  this  beam  or  upon  that,  but 
could  not  quite  manage  it  till,  in  an  awkward  manner, 
they  would  flop  down  somewhere.  In  a  good  many 
things  we  ourselves  find  it  more  difficult  to  stop  than 
to  start.  In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  they  all  went 
forth  into  the  air  with  their  parents,  and,  I  think, 
never  returned  to  the  interior  of  the  barn.  At  five 
o'clock  I  saw  them  perched  upon  the  tops  of  dry 
mullein-stalks  in  the  pasture.  As  I  approached 
them,  they  took  flight  and  coursed  through  the  air 
high  and  low,  over  the  tree-tops  and  above  the 
valley,  with  wonderful  ease  and  freedom.  After  a 
while  they  returned  to  the  mullein-stalks  and  again 
betrayed  their  inexperience  by  their  awkwardness 
230 


A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

in  alighting.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  how 
long  they  were  on  the  wing  before  they  began  cap- 
turing their  own  food.  I  saw  the  parent  birds  feed- 
ing them  in  the  air  a  few  days  after  the  exodus  from 
the  nest.  In  August  they  will  be  perching  upon  tele- 
graph-wires and  upon  the  ridgepoles  of  hay-barns, 
with  the  instinct  of  migration  working  in  their  little 
bodies. 

The  exodus  of  the  young  phoebes  from  the  nest 
was  much  less  noticeable.  I  saw  no  preliminary 
stretching  or  flapping  of  wings,  and  no  parental 
solicitude.  Flying  is  not  the  business  of  the  phcebe, 
as  it  is  with  the  swallow,  and  its  life  is  much  more 
humdrum.  The  young  came  out  at  intervals  one 
afternoon,  and  they  lingered  about  the  barn,  going 
out  and  in  for  several  days,  the  family  keeping  well 
together.  Later  I  shall  see  them  about  the  orchards 
and  fences,  bobbing  their  tails  and  being  fed  by  their 
parents. 

A  mow  of  last  year's  hay  in  the  big  bay  of  the  barn 
holds  its  pretty  secret  also.  Two  years  ago  a  junco 
or  snowbird  built  her  nest  in  its  side,  and  this  year 
she,  or  another,  is  back  again,  a  month  earlier.  It 
amuses  me  to  see  her  come  in  with  her  beak  full  of 
dry  grass  to  build  a  nest  in  a  mow  of  dry  grass.  Her 
forebears  have  always  built  their  nests  in  the  sides 
of  weedy  or  mossgrown  banks  in  secluded  fields  and 
woodsides,  and  have  used  such  material  as  they 
could  find  in  these  places.  She  is  under  the  spell  of 
231 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

these  inherited  habits  —  in  all  but  in  the  selection  of 
the  locality  of  her  nest.  In  this  she  makes  a  new  de- 
parture, and  in  so  doing  shows  how  adaptive  many 
of  the  wild  creatures  are.  The  bird  has  probably 
failed  in  her  attempts  to  bring  out  a  brood  in  the  old 
places.  I  think  three  out  of  four  of  all  such  attempts 
on  the  part  of  ground  builders  do  fail.  Within  a 
few  days  two  sparrows'  nests  in  a  small  space  in  the 
pasture  below  me  have  been  "  harried,"  as  the  Scotch 
say.  If  they  escape  the  sharp-eyed  crows  by  day,  the 
skunks  and  the  foxes,  or  other  night  prowlers,  are 
pretty  sure  to  smell  them  out  by  night.  The  family 
of  crows,  two  old  ones  and  four  young  ones,  that  I 
see  every  day  foraging  about  the  fields,  probably 
plunder  nine  out  of  ten  of  all  the  nests  in  the  field. 
At  any  rate,  my  junco  has  decided  on  trying  the 
shelter  of  the  old  barn.  Here  she  is  in  danger  from 
rats  and  cats  and  red  squirrels,  but  at  this  season 
she  stands  a  fair  chance  of  escape.  When  she  comes 
in  with  a  wisp  of  the  outdoor  rubbish  in  her  beak, 
I  should  say  she  showed  some  nervousness  were  it 
not  for  the  fact  that  juncoes  always  seem  to  be  ner- 
vous. She  flits  about  with  her  eye  upon  me,  and  after 
a  few  feints  flies  up  to  her  place  on  the  side  of  the 
mow  and  disappears  for  a  moment  under  the  droop- 
ing locks  of  hay.  Her  nest  is  completed  in  two  or 
three  forenoons  —  a  very  simple  and  rud3  affair 
compared  with  the  nest  in  May  or  June  under  a  mossy 
bank  by  the  woodside.  Then  she  is  not  in  evidence 
232 


A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

for  two  or  three  days,  when,  one  morning,  I  discover 
that  the  nest  holds  two  eggs.  Two  days  later  it 
holds  four,  and  the  next  day  incubation  has  evi- 
dently begun.  As  she  sits  in  the  shadow  of  her  little 
cavity  in  the  mow,  only  her  light-colored  beak  shows 
me  when  she  is  on  her  nest.  A  heavy  rope  is  stretched 
low  across  the  barn  floor,  and  it  is  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  her  approach  the  hay -mow  along  this  rope,  hop- 
ping nervously  along,  showing  the  white  quills  in 
her  tail,  and  wiping  her  beak  over  and  over  on  the 
rope  as  she  progresses.  I  think  the  beak-wiping,  now 
on  this  side,  now  on  that,  is  just  another  expression 
of  her  nervousness,  or  else  of  preoccupation,  for 
surely  her  beak  is  clean.  She  gives  no  heed  either  to 
the  swallows  or  to  the  phoebes,  nor  they  to  her.  Well, 
she  is  fairly  launched  on  her  little  voyage  of  mater- 
nity, and  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  see  that  her  venture 
is  successful. 

A  week  later,  alas !  it  turned  out  to  be  the  old  story 
of  the  best-laid  schemes  of  mice  and  men.  Some 
serious  mishap  befell  my  little  neighbor.  One  day 
she  was  missing  from  her  nest  from  morning  till 
night.  The  following  morning  her  eggs  were  stone 
cold,  and  the  male  bird  was  flitting  about  the  barn 
and  running  along  the  beams  as  I  entered,  no  doubt 
in  an  anxious  state  of  mind  about  his  mate.  I  could 
give  him  no  clue  to  her  whereabouts,  and  her  fate 
is  a  mystery  —  whether  captured,  by  a  hawk  or  a 
cat,  while  out  in  quest  of  food,  I  shall  never  know. 
233 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

The  same  day  ill  fortune  overtook  a  queen  bumble- 
bee who  had  a  nest  somewhere  about  the  barn.  She 
appeared  abruptly  upon  the  ground  in  front  of  my 
door  in  a  great  state  of  excitement.  She  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  discovered  that  she  could  not  fly,  and 
she  was  making  vain  attempts  to  do  so,  in  a  state 
of  painful  agitation.  She  buzzed  and  rushed  about 
amid  the  dry  grass  and  loose  straws  like  one  beside 
herself.  I  went  to  her  to  give  her  a  lift ;  she  rushed  up 
the  twig  I  proffered,  then  up  my  hand,  shaking  with 
excitement.  From  this  coign  of  vantage  she  tried 
to  launch  herself  into  the  air,  but  fell  ingloriously 
to  the  ground.  I  saw  that  her  right  wing  was  badly 
mutilated;  not  more  than  half  of  it  remained,  and 
flying  was  out  of  the  question.  But  the  poor  queen 
would  not  have  it  so;  she  could  not  be  convinced  that 
she  could  not  fly.  The  oftener  she  failed  in  her  at- 
tempts, the  more  desperate  she  became.  She  always 
had  flown,  and  now  suddenly  her  wings  failed  her. 
She  would  climb  up  the  taller  spears  of  grass  and 
make  the  attempt,  and  upon  stems  and  sticks.  She 
could  not  accept  her  cruel  fate.  She  finally  rushed 
into  the  stonework  and  I  saw  her  no  more. 

I  am  not  certain  that  the  queen  bumblebee  makes 
a  nuptial  flight  like  the  queen  of  the  hive  bees,  but 
probably  she  does,  and  this  one  may  have  left  her 
near-by  colony  for  this  purpose,  only  to  flounder  in- 
gloriously among  the  weeds.  Probably  some  an- 
archist insect  had  frayed  and  clipped  her  wing  in 
234 


A  HAY-BARN  IDYL 

her  nest,  having  no  more  respect  for  royalty  than 
for  her  humble  subjects.  There  is  no  sphere  of 
life  so  lowly  that  such  tragedies  and  failures  do  not 
come  to  it. 


XIV 
IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

I.  INTENSIVE  OBSERVATION 

THE  casual  glances  or  the  admiring  glances  that 
we  cast  upon  nature  do  not  go  very  far  in  mak- 
ing us  acquainted  with  her  real  ways.  Only  long  and 
close  scrutiny  can  reveal  these  to  us.  The  look  of 
appreciation  is  not  enough;  the  eye  must  become 
critical  and  analytical  if  we  would  know  the  exact 
truth. 

Close  scrutiny  of  an  object  in  nature  will  nearly 
always  yield  some  significant  fact  that  our  admir- 
ing gaze  did  not  take  in.  I  learned  a  new  fact  about 
the  teazel  the  other  day  by  scrutinizing  it  more 
closely  than  I  had  ever  before  done;  I  discovered 
that  the  wave  of  bloom  begins  in  the  middle  of  the 
head  and  spreads  both  ways,  up  and  down,  whereas 
in  all  other  plants  known  to  me  with  flowering 
heads  or  spikes,  except  the  goldenrod  and  the  steeple- 
bush,  the  wave  of  bloom  begins  at  the  bottom  and 
creeps  upward  like  a  flame.  In  the  goldenrod  it 
drops  down  from  branch  to  branch.  In  vervain,  in 
blueweed,  in  Venus'  looking-glass,  in  the  mullein, 
in  the  evening-primrose,  and  others,  the  bloom 
creeps  slowly  upward  from  the  bottom. 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

But  with  the  teazel  the  flame  of  bloom  is  first  kin- 
dled in  the  middle ;  to-day  you  see  the  head  with  this 
purple  zone  or  girdle  about  it,  and  in  a  day  or  two 
you  see  two  purple  girdles  with  an  open  space  be- 
tween them,  and  these  move,  the  one  up  and  the 
other  down,  till  the  head  stands  with  a  purple  base 
and  a  purple  crown  with  a  broad  space  of  neutral 
green  between  them. 

This  is  a  sample  of  the  small  but  significant  facts 
in  nature  that  interest  me  —  exceptional  facts  that 
show  how  nature  at  times  breaks  away  from  a  fixed 
habit,  a  beaten  path,  so  to  speak,  and  tries  a  new 
course.  She  does  this  in  animal  life  too. 

Huxley  mentions  a  curious  exception  to  the  general 
plan  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood.  In  all  animals 
that  have  a  circulation  the  blood  takes  one  definite 
and  invariable  direction  except  in  the  case  of  one 
class  of  marine  animals,  called  ascidians;  in  them 
the  heart,  after  beating  a  certain  number  of  times, 
stops  and  begins  to  beat  the  opposite  way,  so  as  to 
reverse  the  current;  then  in  a  moment  or  two  it 
changes  again  and  drives  the  blood  in  the  other 
direction. 

All  things  are  possible  with  nature,  and  these 
unexpected  possibilities  or  departures  from  the  gen- 
eral plan  are  very  interesting.  It  is  interesting  to 
know  that  any  creature  can  come  into  being  without 
a  father,  but  with  only  a  grandfather,  yet  such  is 
the  case.  The  drone  in  the  hive  has  no  father;  the 
237 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

eggs  of  the  unfertilized  queen  produce  drones  —  that 
is,  in  producing  males,  the  male  is  dispensed  with.  It 
is  to  produce  the  neuters  or  the  workers  that  the 
service  of  the  male  is  required.  The  queen  bee  is 
developed  from  one  of  these  neuter  eggs,  hence  her 
male  offspring  have  only  a  grandfather. 

The  chipmunk  is  an  old  friend  of  my  boyhood  and 
my  later  years  also,  but  by  scrutinizing  his  ways  a 
little  more  closely  than  usual  the  past  summer  I 
learned  things  about  this  pretty  little  rodent  that 
I  did  not  before  know.  I  discovered,  for  instance, 
that  he  digs  his  new  hole  for  his  winter  quarters  in 
midsummer. 

In  my  strolls  afield  or  along  the  road  in  July  I 
frequently  saw  a  fresh  pile  of  earth  upon  the  grass 
near  a  stone  fence,  or  in  the  orchard,  or  on  the  edge 
of  the  woods  —  usually  a  peck  or  two  of  bright, 
new  earth  carefully  put  down  in  a  pile  upon  the 
ground  without  any  clue  visible  as  to  where  it  prob- 
ably came  from.  But  a  search  in  the  grass  or  leaves 
usually  disclosed  its  source  —  a  little  round  hole 
neatly  cut  through  the  turf  and  leading  straight 
downward.  I  came  upon  ten  such  mounds  of  earth 
upon  a  single  farm,  and  found  the  hole  from  which 
each  came,  from  one  to  six  feet  away.  In  one  case, 
in  a  meadow  recently  mowed,  I  had  to  explore  the 
stubble  with  my  finger  over  several  square  yards  of 
surface  before  I  found  the  squirrel's  hole,  so  undis- 
turbed was  the  grass  around  it;  not  a  grain  of  soil 
238 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

had  the  little  delver  dropped  near  it,  and  not  the 
slightest  vestige  of  a  path  had  he  made  from  the 
tunnel  to  the  dump. 

And  this  feature  was  noticeable  in  every  case;  the 
hole  had  been  dug  several  yards  under  ground  and 
several  pecks  of  fresh  earth  removed  to  a  distance  of 
some  feet  without  the  least  speck  of  soil  or  the  least 
trace  of  the  workman's  footsteps  showing  near  the 
entrance;  such  clean,  deft  workmanship  was  remark- 
able. All  this  half -bushel  or  more  of  earth  the  squir- 
rel must  have  carried  out  in  his  cheek  pockets,  and 
he  must  have  made  hundreds  of  trips  to  and  fro  from 
his  dump  to  his  hole,  and  yet  if  he  had  flown  like  a 
bird  the  turf  could  not  have  been  freer  from  the 
marks  of  his  going  and  coming;  and  he  had  cut  down 
through  the  turf  as  one  might  have  done  with  an  au- 
ger, without  bruising  or  disturbing  in  any  way  the 
grass  about  the  edges.  It  was  a  clean,  neat  job  in 
every  case,  so  much  so  that  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  the  delver  did  not  come  up  from  below  and 
have  a  back  door  from  whence  he  carried  his  soil 
some  yards  away. 

Indeed,  I  have  heard  this  theory  stated.  "  Look 
under  the  pile  of  earth,"  said  a  friend  who  was  with 
me  and  who  had  observed  the  work  of  the  pocket 
gopher  in  the  West,  "  and  you  will  find  the  back  door 
there."  But  it  was  not  so.  I  carefully  removed  four 
piles  of  earth  and  dug  away  the  turf  beneath  them, 
and  no  hole  was  to  be  found. 
239 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

One  day  we  found  a  pile  of  earth  in  a  meadow,  and 
near  it  a  hole  less  than  two  inches  deep,  showing 
where  the  chipmunk  had  begun  to  dig  and  had 
struck  a  stone;  then  he  went  a  foot  or  more  up  the 
hill  and  began  again;  here  he  soon  struck  stones  as 
before,  then  he  went  still  farther  up  the  hill,  and 
this  time  was  successful  in  penetrating  the  soil.  This 
was  conclusive  proof  that  these  round  holes  are  cut 
from  above  and  not  from  below,  as  we  often  see  in 
the  case  of  the  woodchuck-hole.  The  squirrel  ap- 
parently gnaws  through  the  turf,  instead  of  dig- 
ging through,  and  carries  away  the  loosened  mate- 
rial in  his  mouth,  never  dropping  or  scattering  a 
gram  of  it.  No  home  was  ever  built  with  less  lit- 
ter, no  cleaner  dooryard  from  first  to  last  can  be 
found. 

The  absence  of  anything  like  a  trail  or  beaten 
way  from  the  mound  of  earth  to  the  hole,  or  anything 
suggesting  passing  feet,  I  understood  better  when, 
later  in  the  season,  day  after  day  I  saw  a  chipmunk 
carrying  supplies  into  his  den,  which  was  in  the  turf 
by  the  roadside  about  ten  feet  from  a  stone  wall.  He 
covered  the  distance  by  a  series  of  short  jumps,  ap- 
parently striking  each  time  upon  his  toes  between 
the  spears  of  grass,  and  leaving  no  marks  whatever 
by  which  his  course  could  be  traced.  This  was  also 
his  manner  of  leaving  the  hole,  and  doubtless  it  was 
his  manner  in  carrying  away  the  soil  from  his  tun- 
nel to  the  dumping-pile.  He  left  no  sign  upon 
240 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

the  grass,  he  disturbed  not  one  spear  about  the  en- 
trance. 

There  was  a  mystery  about  this  den  by  the  road- 
side of  which  I  have  just  spoken  —  the  pile  of  earth 
could  not  be  found;  unless  the  roadmaker  had  re- 
moved it,  it  must  have  been  hidden  in  or  beneath 
the  stone  wall. 

And  there  was  a  mystery  about  some  of  the  other 
holes  that  was  absolutely  baffling  to  me.  In  at  least 
four  mounds  of  fresh  earth  I  found  freshly  dug 
stones  that  I  could  not  by  any  manipulation  get 
back  into  the  hole  out  of  which  they  had  evidently 
come.  They  were  all  covered  with  fresh  earth,  and 
were  in  the  pile  of  soil  with  many  other  smaller 
stones.  In  one  case  a  stone  two  inches  long,  one 
and  one  half  inches  broad,  and  one  half  inch  thick 
was  found.  In  two  other  cases  stones  of  about  the 
same  length  and  breadth  but  not  so  thick  were 
found,  and  in  neither  case  could  the  stone  be  forced 
into  the  hole.  In  still  another  case  the  entrance  to 
the  den  was  completely  framed  by  the  smaller  roots 
of  a  beech-tree,  and  in  the  little  mound  of  earth  near 
it  were  two  stones  that  could  only  be  gotten  back 
into  the  hole  by  springing  one  of  these  roots,  which 
required  considerable  force  to  do.  In  two  at  least 
of  these  four  cases  it  was  a  physical  impossibility  for 
the  stones  to  have  come  out  of  the  hole  from  whence 
the  mound  of  earth  and  the  lesser  stones  evidently 
came,  yet  how  happened  they  in  the  pile  of  earth 
241 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

freshly  earth-stained?  The  squirrel  could  not  have 
carried  them  in  his  cheek  pouches,  they  were  so 
large;  how,  then,  did  he  carry  them? 

The  matter  stood  thus  with  me  for  some  weeks; 
I  was  up  against  a  little  problem  in  natural  history 
that  I  could  not  solve.  Late  in  November  I  visited 
the  scene  of  the  squirrel-holes  again,  and  at  last  got 
the  key  to  the  mystery :  the  cunning  little  delver  cuts 
a  groove  in  one  side  of  the  hole  just  large  enough 
to  let  the  stone  through,  then  packs  it  full  of  soil 
again.  When  I  made  my  November  visit  it  had  been 
snowing  and  raining  and  freezing  and  thawing,  and 
the  top  of  the  ground  was  getting  soft.  A  red  squir- 
rel had  visited  the  hole  in  the  orchard  where  two  of 
the  largest  stones  were  found  in  the  pile  of  earth, 
and  had  apparently  tried  to  force  his  way  into  the 
chipmunk's  den.  In  doing  so  he  had  loosened  the 
earth  in  the  groove,  softened  by  the  rains,  and  it 
had  dropped  out.  The  groove  was  large  enough  for 
me  to  lay  my  finger  in  and  just  adequate  to  admit 
the  stones  into  the  hole.  This,  then,  was  the  way  the 
little  engineer  solved  the  problem,  and  I  experienced 
a  sense  of  relief  that  I  had  solved  mine. 

I  visited  the  second  hole  where  the  large  stone 
was  in  the  pile  of  earth,  and  found  that  the  same 
thing  had  happened  there.  A  red  squirrel,  bent  on 
plunder,  had  been  trying  to  break  in,  and  had  re- 
moved the  soil  in  the  groove.1 

1  I  feel  bound  to  report  that  the  next  season  I  found  a  pile 

242 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

To  settle  the  point  as  to  whether  or  not  the  chip- 
munk has  a  back  door,  which  in  no  case  had  I  been 
able  to  find,  we  dug  out  the  one  by  the  roadside, 
whose  mound  of  earth  we  could  not  discover.  We 
followed  his  tortuous  course  through  the  soil  three 
or  four  feet  from  the  entrance  and  nearly  three  feet 
beneath  the  surface,  where  we  found  him  in  his 
chamber,  warm  in  his  nest  of  leaves,  but  not  asleep. 
He  had  no  back  door.  He  came  out  (it  was  a  male) 
as  a  hand  was  thrust  into  his  chamber,  and  the  same 
fearless,  strong  hand  seized  him,  but  did  not  hurt 
him.  His  chamber  was  spacious  enough  to  hold  about 
four  quarts  of  winter  stores  and  leave  him  consider- 
able room  to  stir  about  in.  His  supplies  consisted  of 
the  seeds  of  the  wild  buckwheat  (Polygonum  du- 
metorum)  and  choke-cherry  pits,  and  formed  a  very 
unpromising  looking  mess.  His  buckwheat  did 
not  seem  to  have  been  properly  cured,  for  much  of 
it  was  mouldy,  but  it  had  been  carefully  cleaned, 
every  kernel  of  it.  There  were  nearly  four  quarts  of 
seeds  altogether,  and  over  one  half  of  it  was  wild 
buckwheat.  I  was  curious  to  know  approximately 
the  number  of  these  seeds  he  had  gathered  and 
shucked.  I  first  found  the  number  it  took  to  fill  a 
lady's  thimble,  and  then  the  number  of  thimbles 

of  earth  which  a  chipmunk  had  removed  from  his  den,  contain- 
ing a  stone  too  large  to  go  into  the  hole,  yet  the  most  careful 
examination  failed  to  reveal  that  there  had  ever  been  any 
groove  cut  in  it,  or  that  it  had  ever  been  in  any  way  enlarged. 

243 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

full  it  took  to  fill  a  cup,  and  so  reached  the  number 
in  the  two  quarts,  and  found  that  it  amounted  to 
the  surprising  figure  of  250,000. 

Think  of  the  amount  of  patient  labor  required 
to  clean  250,000  of  the  small  seeds  of  the  wild  buck- 
wheat !  The  grains  are  hardly  one  third  the  size  of 
those  of  the  cultivated  kind  and  are  jet  black  when 
the  husk  is  removed.  Probably  every  seed  was 
husked  with  those  deft  little  hands  and  teeth  as  it 
was  gathered,  before  it  went  into  his  cheek  pockets, 
but  what  a  task  it  must  have  been ! 

Poor  little  hermit,  it  seemed  pathetic  to  find  him 
facing  the  coming  winter  there  with  such  inferior 
stuff  in  his  granary.  Not  a  nut,  not  a  kernel  of  corn 
or  wheat.  Why  he  had  not  availed  himself  of  the 
oats  that  grew  just  over  the  fence  I  should  like  to 
know.  Of  course,  the  wild  buckwheat  must  have 
been  more  to  his  liking.  How  many  hazardous  trips 
along  fences  and  into  the  bushes  his  stores  repre- 
sented !  The  wild  creatures  all  live  in  as  savage  a 
country  as  did  our  earliest  ancestors,  and  the  enemy 
of  each  is  lying  in  wait  for  it  at  nearly  every  turn. 

Digging  the  little  fellow  out,  of  course,  brought 
ruin  upon  his  house,  and  I  think  the  Muse  of  Natural 
History  contemplated  the  scene  with  many  com- 
punctions of  conscience, — if  she  has  any  conscience, 
which  I  am  inclined  to  doubt.  But  our  human 
hearts  prompted  us  to  do  all  we  could  to  give  the 
provident  little  creature  a  fresh  start;  we  put  his 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

supplies  carefully  down  beside  the  stone  wall  into 
which  he  had  disappeared  on  being  liberated,  and 
the  next  day  he  had  carried  a  large  part  of  them 
away.  He  evidently  began  at  once  to  "  hustle," 
and  I  trust  he  found  or  made  a  new  retreat  from 
the  winter  before  it  was  too  late. 

I  doubt  if  the  chipmunk  ever  really  hibernates ;  the 
hibernating  animals  do  not  lay  up  winter  stores,  but 
he  no  doubt  indulges  in  many  very  long  before-din- 
ner and  after-dinner  naps.  It  is  blackest  night  there 
in  his  den  three  feet  under  the  ground,  and  this  lasts 
about  four  months,  or  until  the  premonitions  of 
coming  spring  reach  him  in  March  and  call  him 
forth. 

I  am  curious  to  know  if  the  female  chipmunk  also 
digs  a  den  for  herself,  or  takes  up  with  one  occupied 
by  the  male  the  previous  winter. 

One  ought  to  be  safe  in  generalizing  upon  the  habits 
of  chipmunks  in  digging  their  holes,  after  observing 
ten  of  them,  yet  one  must  go  slow  even  then.  Nine 
of  the  holes  I  observed  had  a  pile  of  earth  near  them; 
the  tenth  hole  had  no  dump  that  I  could  find.  Then 
I  found  four  holes  with  the  soil  hauled  out  and  piled 
up  about  the  entrance  precisely  after  the  manner 
of  woodchucks.  This  was  a  striking  exception  to  the 
general  habit  of  the  chipmunk  in  this  matter.  "  Is 
this  the  way  the  female  digs  her  hole,"  I  asked  my- 
self, " or  is  it  the  work  of  young  chipmunks?" 

I  have  in  two  cases  found  holes  in  the  ground  on 
245 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

the  borders  of  swamps,  occupied  by  weasels,  but  the 
holes  were  in  all  outward  respects  like  those  made  by 
chipmunks,  with  no  soil  near  the  entrance.  The  wood- 
chuck  makes  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  hole  by  carry- 
ing away  the  soil;  neither  does  the  prairie-dog,  nor 
the  pocket  gopher.  The  pile  of  telltale  earth  in  each 
case  may  be  seen  from  afar,  but  our  little  squirrel 
seems  to  have  notions  of  neatness  and  concealment 
that  he  rarely  departs  from.  The  more  I  study  his 
ways,  the  more  I  see  what  a  clever  and  foxy  little 
rodent  he  is. 

II.  FROM  A  WALKER'S  WALLET 


On  the  morning  after  our  first  hard  frost  in  late 
October  or  early  November  how  rapidly  the  leaves 
let  go  their  hold  upon  their  parent  stems!  I  stood 
for  some  minutes  one  such  morning  under  a  maple 
by  the  roadside  to  witness  the  silent  spectacle.  The 
leaves  came  down  one  by  one  like  great  golden  flakes ; 
there  was  no  motion  in  the  air  to  loosen  them;  their 
hour  had  come,  and  they  gave  up  life  easily  and 
gracefully. 

What  a  gay  company  they  had  made  on  that  tree 
all  summer,  clapping  their  hands  in  gladness,  and 
joyously  drinking  in  the  air  and  the  sunshine,  whis- 
pering, rustling,  swayed  by  emotion,  or  stilled  by  the 
night  dews,  and  each  and  all  doing  their  work!  Now 
246 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

their  day  is  done,  and  one  by  one  they  let  go  their 
hold  upon  the  parent  stem,  and  fall  to  the  earth. 

Some  come  hurrying  and  tumbling  down;  some 
drop  almost  like  clods;  some  come  eddying  and  bal- 
ancing down;  and  now  and  then  one  comes  down  as 
gracefully  as  a  bird,  sailing  around  in  an  easy  spiral 
like  a  dove  alighting,  its  edges  turned  up  like  wings, 
and  its  stems  pointing  downward  like  a  head  and 
neck.  One  can  hardly  believe  it  is  not  a  thing  of  life. 
It  reaches  the  ground  as  lightly  as  a  snowflake.  If 
one  could  only  finish  his  own  career  as  gracefully! 

What  a  contrast  to  the  falling  of  the  leaves  of  some 
other  trees,  say  those  of  the  mulberry !  The  leaves 
of  this  tree  fall,  on  such  mornings,  like  soldiers  slain 
in  battle  with  all  their  powers  in  full  force.  They 
drop  heavily  and  clumsily,  apparently  untouched 
by  the  ripening  process  that  so  colors  the  maple  and 
other  leaves.  They  are  rank  green  and  full  of  sap. 
So  with  the  locusts,  and  the  apple  and  cherry  leaves; 
they  all  seem  cut  off  prematurely. 

But  the  leaves  of  most  of  our  native  trees  —  oak, 
ash,  hickory,  maple  —  seem  to  fall  in  the  fullness 
of  time.  They  have  ripened  like  the  grain  and  the 
fruit;  they  are  colored  like  the  clouds  at  sunset;  and 
their  demise  seems  a  welcome  event.  They  make  the 
woods  and  groves  gay;  they  carpet  the  ground  as 
with  sunset  clouds;  it  is  a  funeral  that  is  like  a  festi- 
val; it  is  the  golden  age  come  back. 

The  falling  of  these  gayly  colored  leaves  seems  to 
247 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

make  a  holiday  in  nature;  it  is  like  the  fluttering  of 
ribbons  and  scarfs;  it  does  not  suggest  age  and  decay; 
it  suggests  some  happy  celebration.  They  seem  to 
augment  the  sunshine,  to  diffuse  their  own  color 
into  it,  or  to  give  back  to  it  the  light  they  have  been 
so  long  absorbing.  The  day  itself  drops  upon  the 
earth  like  a  great  golden  leaf  fallen  from  the  tree 
of  Ygdrasyl. 

II 

It  always  gives  me  a  little  pleasurable  emotion 
when  I  see  in  the  autumn  woods  where  the  downy 
woodpecker  has  just  been  excavating  his  winter 
quarters  in  a  dead  limb  or  tree- trunk.  I  am  walk- 
ing along  a  trail  or  wood-road  when  I  see  something 
like  coarse  new  sawdust  scattered  on  the  ground. 
I  know  at  once  what  carpenter  has  been  at  work 
in  the  trees  overhead,  and  I  proceed  to  scrutinize 
the  trunks  and  branches.  Presently  I  am  sure  to  de- 
tect a  new  round  hole  about  an  inch  and  a  half  in 
diameter  on  the  under  side  of  a  dead  limb,  or  in  a 
small  tree-trunk.  This  is  Downy's  cabin,  where 
he  expects  to  spend  the  winter  nights,  and  a  part  of 
the  stormy  days,  too. 

When  he  excavates  it  in  an  upright  tree-trunk,  he 
usually  chooses  a  spot  beneath  a  limb ;  the  limb  forms 
a  sort  of  rude  hood,  and  prevents  the  rain-water 
from  running  down  into  it.  It  is  a  snug  and  pretty 
retreat,  and  a  very  safe  one,  I  think.  I  doubt  whether 
248 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

the  driving  snow  ever  reaches  him,  and  no  preda- 
tory owl  could  hook  him  out  with  its  claw.  Near 
town  or  in  town  the  English  sparrow  would  probably 
drive  him  out;  but  in  the  woods,  I  think,  he  is  rarely 
molested,  though  in  one  instance  I  knew  him  to  be 
dispossessed  by  a  flying  squirrel. 

On  stormy  days  I  have  known  Downy  to  return 
to  his  chamber  in  mid-afternoon,  and  to  lie  abed 
there  till  ten  in  the  morning. 

I  have  no  knowledge  that  any  other  species  of  our 
woodpeckers  excavate  these  winter  quarters,  but 
they  probably  do.  The  chickadee  has  too  slender  a 
beak  for  such  work,  and  usually  spends  the  winter 
nights  in  natural  cavities  or  in  the  abandoned 
holes  of  Downy. 

in 

As  I  am  writing  here  in  my  study  these  November 
days,  a  downy  woodpecker  is  excavating  a  chamber 
in  the  top  of  a  chestnut  post  in  the  vineyard  a  few 
yards  below  me,  or  rather,  he  is  enlarging  a  cham- 
ber which  he  or  one  of  his  fellows  excavated  last  fall; 
he  is  making  it  ready  for  his  winter  quarters.  A  few 
days  ago  I  saw  him  enlarging  the  entrance  and 
making  it  a  more  complete  circle.  Now  he  is  in  the 
chamber  itself  working  away  like  a  carpenter.  I  hear 
his  muffled  hammering  as  I  approach  cautiously  on 
the  grass.  I  make  no  sound  and  the  hammering 
continues  till  I  have  stood  for  a  moment  beside  the 
249 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

post,  then  it  suddenly  stops  and  Downy's  head  ap- 
pears at  the  door.  He  glances  at  me  suspiciously  and 
then  hurries  away  in  much  excitement. 

How  did  he  know  there  was  some  one  so  near?  As 
birds  have  no  sense  of  smell  it  must  have  been  by 
some  other  means.  I  return  to  my  study  and  in 
about  fifteen  minutes  Downy  is  back  at  work.  Again 
I  cautiously  and  silently  approach,  but  he  is  now 
more  alert,  and  when  I  am  the  width  of  three  grape 
rows  from  him  he  rushes  out  of  his  den  and  lets  off 
his  sharp,  metallic  cry  as  he  hurries  away  to  some 
trees  below  the  hill. 

He  does  not  return  to  his  work  again  that  after- 
noon. But  I  feel  certain  that  he  will  pass  the  night 
there  and  every  night  all  winter  unless  he  is  dis- 
turbed. So  when  my  son  and  I  are  passing  along  the 
path  by  his  post  with  a  lantern  about  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  I  pause  and  say,  "Let's  see  if  Downy 
is  at  home."  A  slight  tap  on  the  post  and  we  hear 
Downy  jump  out  of  bed,  as  it  were,  and  his  head 
quickly  fills  the  doorway.  We  pass  hurriedly  on  and 
he  does  not  take  flight. 

A  few  days  later,  just  at  sundown,  as  I  am  walking 
on  the  terrace  above,  I  see  Downy  come  sweeping 
swiftly  down  through  the  air  on  that  long  galloping 
flight  of  his,  and  alight  on  the  big  maple  on  the  brink 
of  the  hill  above  his  retreat.  He  sits  perfectly  still 
for  a  few  moments,  surveying  the  surroundings,  and, 
seeing  that  the  coast  is  clear,  drops  quickly  and 
250 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

silently  down  and  disappears  in  the  interior  of  his 
chestnut  lodge.  He  will  do  this  all  winter  long,  com- 
ing home,  when  the  days  are  stormy,  by  four  o'clock, 
and  not  stirring  out  in  the  morning  till  nine  or  ten 
o'clock.  Some  very  cold,  blustery  days  he  will  prob- 
ably not  leave  his  retreat  at  all. 

He  has  no  mate  or  fellow  lodger,  though  there  is 
room  in  his  cabin  for  three  birds  at  least.  Where  the 
female  is  I  can  only  conjecture;  maybe  she  is  occupy- 
ing a  discarded  last  year's  lodge,  as  I  notice  there 
are  a  good  many  new  holes  drilled  in  the  trees  every 
fall,  though  many  of  the  old  ones  still  seem  intact. 

During  the  inclement  season  Downy  is  anything 
but  chivalrous  or  even  generous.  He  will  not  even 
share  with  the  female  the  marrow  bone  or  bit  of 
suet  that  I  fasten  on  the  maple  in  front  of  my  win- 
dow, but  drives  her  away  rudely.  Sometimes  the 
hairy  woodpecker,  a  much  larger  bird,  routs  Downy 
out  and  wrecks  his  house.  Sometimes  the  English 
sparrows  mob  him  and  dispossess  him.  In  the  woods 
the  flying  squirrels  often  turn  him  out  of  doors  and 
furnish  his  chamber  cavity  to  suit  themselves. 

IV 

I  am  always  content  if  I  can  bring  home  from  my 
walks  the  least  bit  of  live  natural  history,  as  when, 
the  other  day,  I  saw  a  red-headed  woodpecker  hav- 
ing a  tilt  with  a  red  squirrel  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 

Doubtless  the  woodpecker  had  a  nest  near  by,  and 
251 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

had  had  some  experience  with  this  squirrel  as  a  nest- 
robber.  When  I  first  saw  them,  the  bird  was  chasing 
the  squirrel  around  the  trunk  of  an  oak-tree,  his 
bright  colors  of  black  and  white  and  red  making  his 
every  movement  conspicuous.  The  squirrel  avoided 
him  by  darting  quickly  to  the  other  side  of  the 
tree. 

Then  the  woodpecker  took  up  his  stand  on  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  a  few  yards  distant,  and  every  time 
the  squirrel  ventured  timidly  around  where  he  could 
be  seen  the  woodpecker  would  swoop  down  at  him, 
making  another  loop  of  bright  color.  The  squirrel 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  fun  and  to  tempt  the  bird  to 
make  this  ineffectual  swoop.  Time  and  again  he 
would  poke  his  head  round  the  tree  and  draw  the 
fire  of  his  red-headed  enemy.  Occasionally  the 
bird  made  it  pretty  hot  for  him,  and  pressed  him 
closely,  but  he  could  escape  because  he  had  the 
inside  ring,  and  was  so  artful  a  dodger.  As  often  as 
he  showed  himself  on  the  woodpecker's  side,  the 
bird  would  make  a  vicious  pass  at  him;  and  there 
would  follow  a  moment  of  lively  skurrying  around 
the  trunk  of  the  old  oak;  then  all  would  be  quiet 
again. 

Finally  the  squirrel  seemed  to  get  tired  of  the 
sport,  and  ran  swiftly  to  the  top  and  off  through  the 
branches  into  the  neighboring  trees.  As  this  was 
probably  all  the  woodpecker  was  fighting  for,  he  did 
not  give  chase. 

252 
i 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

While  I  was  watching  the  squirrel  and  the  wood- 
pecker, I  discovered  a  crow's  nest  with  nearly  grown 
young.  The  parent  crow  came  loVv  over  the  fence 
into  the  grove,  and  flew  to  a  branch  of  an  oak,  and 
alighted  only  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  ground. 
Then  it  flew  to  a  higher  branch  in  another  tree,  and 
then  to  the  top  of  a  group  of  spruces,  where  I  saw 
one  of  the  young  crows  rise  and  take  the  food.  How 
cautious  and  artful  the  whole  proceeding  was ! 

One  of  our  latest  nature  writers  pretends  to  see 
what  the  crow  brings  her  young  at  such  times.  Had 
I  had  the  most  powerful  opera-glasses  on  this  occa- 
sion, I  could  not  have  told  the  nature  of  the  morsel 
she  brought  in  her  beak.  The  thing  is  done  very 
quickly  and  deftly,  and  is  not  meant  for  the  eye  of 
any  onlooker  there  may  chance  to  be  about. 

Thus  all  the  little  ways  and  doings  of  the  birds 
interest  me.  They  are  curiously  human,  while  yet 
they  afford  glimpses  into  a  new  and  strange  world. 
We  look  on;  we  are  interested;  we  understand;  we 
sympathize;  we  may  lend  a  hand;  we  share  much  in 
common;  one  nature  mothers  us  all;  our  lives  run 
parallel  in  many  respects;  similar  problems,  similar 
needs,  similar  fatalities,  similar  tribulations,  come 
home  to  us  all;  and  yet  we  are  separated  by  a  gulf, 
the  gulf  that  lies  between  conscious,  reasoning  soul 
and  unconscious,  unreasoning  instinct.  But  I  must 
not  plunge  into  the  gulf,  nor  seek  to  clear  it  here. 


253 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 


It  always  amuses  me  to  see  in  late  May  a  "  chippy  " 
or  a  goldfinch  ride  down  the  dandelion  stalk  that 
is  carrying  its  frail  globe  of  down  high  above  the 
grass.  You  are  looking  out  over  the  lawn  when  you 
see  one  of  these  silver  balls  suddenly  go  down.  A 
chippy  or  a  goldfinch  has  thrown  itself  upon  the 
stalk  and  borne  it  to  the  ground  for  the  seed. 

The  dandelion  seeds  are  about  the  first  that  ripen, 
and  the  seed-eating  birds  are  hard  put  for  food  at 
this  time.  Hence  these  globes  are  a  godsend  to  them. 
Not  long  before  I  had  seen  the  goldfinches  and  the 
purple  finches  pecking  to  pieces  the  button-balls  of 
the  sycamore  for  the  seeds  they  held,  put  up  so  com- 
pactly. 

In  May  the  squirrels  are  hard  put  also.  It  is  at 
this  season  that  the  chipmunk  pulls  up  the  corn,  and 
that  the  red  squirrel  robs  the  birds'  nests  of  both 
eggs  and  young.  Their  last  year's  stores  of  nuts 
and  grains  are  exhausted,  and  the  new  crop  is  not 
yet  formed.  I  think  that  the  chipmunk  has  learned 
that  there  is  something  for  him  also  in  the  dandelion 
seed,  but  I  doubt  whether  the  red  squirrel  has. 

The  latter  has  found  out  that  there  is  some- 
thing for  him  in  the  seeds  of  the  elm-tree,  which 
usually  get  fully  developed  in  May.  The  elm  affords 
short  commons,  but  it  is  better  than  nothing.  The 
chaff  is  big  and  the  grain  small,  but  probably  sweet. 
254 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

Morning,  noon,  and  night  I  see  the  squirrels  feeding 
in  the  elms  about  my  cabin,  and  see  the  road  strewn 
with  the  elm-flakes  from  which  the  germ  in  the 
centre  has  been  cut. 

Do  they  know  an  elm-tree  when  they  see  it,  or  do 
they  explore  all  the  trees  in  quest  of  food?  If,  again, 
I  belonged  to  the  new  school  of  nature  writers,  I 
should  say  they  know  an  elm  as  well  as  you  or  I,  and 
the  date  on  which  the  seeds  are  edible,  and  that 
they  taught  this  wood-lore  to  their  young.  But,  as  it 
is,  I  will  only  venture  to  say  that  at  this  season  there 
they  are  in  the  topmost  branches  of  the  scattered 
elms,  very  busy  with  these  green  scales,  reaching  and 
swaying  and  hanging  by  their  hind  feet,  or  sitting 
up  in  that  pretty  way  with  tails  over  backs  and 
hands  deftly  submitting  the  samara  to  the  teeth. 

The  red  squirrel  is  much  more  of  a  "  hustler " 
than  is  the  gray,  and  will  make  shift  to  live  where 
the  latter  will  starve.  The  red  squirrel  abides,  while 
the  gray  seems  to  go  and  come  with  the  seasons  of 
scarcity  or  of  plenty.  Yet  I  have  seen  the  gray  eating 
the  fruit  of  the  poison-ivy  and  apparently  relish- 
ing it.  But  he  rarely  disturbs  the  birds,  though 
of  this  misdemeanor  he  is  probably  not  entirely 
innocent. 

Small  things,  small  doings,  train  our  powers  of 

observation.  The  big  things  all  can  see.   Who  sees 

the  finer,  shyer  play  of  wild  life  that  goes  on  about 

us?   Not  all  of  nature's  book  is  writ  large;  the  fine 

255 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

print  is  quite  as  interesting,  and  it  is  this  that  trains 
the  eye. 

A  schoolgirl  wrote  me  one  day  that  she  had  seen 
a  hawk  carrying  a  snake  in  its  beak.  Now,  if  she  had 
had  a  trained  eye,  she  would  have  seen  that  the 
hawk  carried  the  snake  in  its  talons.  One  of  our 
recent  nature  writers  has  made  the  same  mistake 
in  his  book.  Birds  of  prey  all  carry  their  game  in 
their  talons;  other  birds  carry  it  in  their  beaks. 

A  recent  magazine  writer  errs  in  the  other  di- 
rection when  he  makes  the  crow  carry  in  its  claws 
the  corn  it  has  pulled  up,  as  the  crow  is  one  of  the 
birds  that  carries  everything  in  its  beak. 

Emerson  says,  "The  day  does  not  seem  wholly 
profane  in  which  we  have  given  heed  to  some  natural 
object."  It  is  such  little  incidents  as  I  have  been 
relating  that  redeem  many  of  my  own  days,  and  give 
to  my  pastimes  a  touch  of  something  I  would  not 
willingly  miss  from  them. 

III.  MEN  AND  ANIMALS 
I 

While  listening  to  the  house  wren  one  morning 
repeating  its  song  eight  or  ten  times  a  minute  for 
hours  at  a  stretch,  and  with  an  expenditure  of  force 
doubtless  many  times  greater,  considering  its  size, 
than  that  expended  by  a  man  or  woman  in  the  act 
of  singing,  and  knowing,  as  I  did,  that  the  little  bird 
256 


IN   FIELD   AND   WOOD 

would  keep  up  the  outpouring  of  song  continuously 
for  two  or  three  months,  throbbing  and  shaking 
in  ecstasy  like  a  small  dynamo,  I  was  forcibly  re- 
minded of  some  of  the  less  obvious  but  deep-seated 
differences  between  ourselves  and  what  we  call  the 
lower  animals,  or  of  the  action  of  instinct  in  the  one 
case,  and  the  action  of  conscious  intelligence  in  the 
other. 

In  this  matter  of  song  lies  one  of  these  differences. 
The  bird-song  is  much  less  a  deliberate  performance 
than  the  human  song,  and  is  one  of  the  secondary 
sexual  characteristics  of  birds.  It  is  the  badge  of 
the  male  alone,  like  the  gay  plumes,  and  is  for  the 
most  part  confined  to  the  breeding-season. 

To  our  ears  it  is  expressive  of  joy,  hilarity,  ecstasy, 
but  it  probably  no  more  has  its  origin  in  those  emo- 
tions than  the  gay  plumes  do.  Its  origin  is  in  the 
male  sexual  principle;  it  is  one  of  the  surplusages  of 
nature. 

Fine  gifts  of  song  and  brilliant  plumage  rarely  go 
together,  as  if  both  sprang  from  the  same  inward 
necessity,  and  each  precluded  the  other.  Our  gem- 
like  indigo-bird,  for  instance,  is  a  faithful  midsum- 
mer songster,  but  in  sweetness  and  tenderness  how 
far  his  strain  falls  short  of  that  of  the  little  brown 
bush  sparrow  in  the  same  field  or  bramble-patch ! 

But  I  was  thinking  more  especially  of  the  auto- 
matic character  of  bird-songs.  Their  character  in 
this  respect  is  so  marked  that  they  often  remind  me 
257 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  the  artificial  songbirds  made  in  Paris  or  Switzer- 
land, which,  when  wound  up,  really  sing  with  spirit 
and  sweetness.  In  their  season  most  of  our  birds  sing 
as  if  they  also  went  by  a  kind  of  clockwork. 

They  are  wound  up  to  go  so  long,  usually  two  or 
three  months.  Late  in  June  they  begin  to  show  signs 
of  running  down,  and  by  and  by  we  get  only  little 
snatches  and  fragments  of  song  from  them.  In  May, 
for  instance,  the  song  of  the  bobolink  is  full  and  rol- 
licking, "  a  brook  o'  laughter,"  as  Lowell  says,  run- 
ning down  the  air.  But  in  July  the  brook,  like  our 
mountain  streams  during  a  dry  time,  has  so  nearly 
dried  up  that  we  get  only  interrupted  and  fragmen- 
tary trickles  now  and  then. 

Moreover,  a  bird- voice  has  a  kind  of  mechanical 
uniformity  and  tirelessness;  it  seems  as  incapable  of 
fatigue  or  failure  of  any  kind  as  does  a  clock.  One 
would  as  soon  expect  a  bell  or  a  watch  or  a  meter  to 
get  hoarse  or  tired  as  he  would  expect  such  a  thing 
of  any  of  our  wild  sweet  singers.  An  amount  of 
conscious  effort  with  the  voice  on  the  part  of  a  human 
being,  equal  to  what  each  of  our  songbirds  puts  forth 
every  day,  would  use  up  his  strength,  and  his  instru- 
ment, too,  in  a  mere  fraction  of  the  time. 

I  have  for  two  seasons  timed  the  little  bush  spar- 
row as  he  sings  about  my  vineyards,  and  found  that 
for  many  hours  a  day,  and  every  day  in  the  month, 
from  April  to  midsummer,  he  sings  his  song  regularly 
six  times  a  minute,  making  several  thousand  times 
258 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

a  day,  extending,  probably,  over  one  hundred 
days. 

The  red-eyed  vireo  sings  almost  continuously 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  from  May  to 
September.  During  the  midsummer  days,  as  in  my 
walk  I  pass  along  the  road  by  a  beech  wood,  I  hear 
a  red-eye  singing,  singing  continuously  till  two  or 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  It  is  like  a  boy  whis- 
tling at  his  work;  only  no  boy  could  whistle  so  long 
and  so  uninterruptedly.  He  pauses  only  briefly  now 
and  then  to  catch  and  eat  a  worm.  This  done,  he 
wipes  his  bill  on  a  limb,  and  resumes  his  warble  as  he 
resumes  his  hunt.  The  vireo  is  wound  up  to  go  the 
whole  season,  and  there  is  no  failure,  though  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  summer  his  warble  is  less  con- 
tinuous. When  I  time  him  I  find  he  repeats  his  strain 
of  three  or  four  notes  about  every  second,  which, 
if  he  sang  only  five  hours  a  day,  would  bring  the 
number  up  into  the  tens  of  thousands,  and  the  sea- 
son of  three  or  four  months  would  bring  it  up  into 
the  millions.  I  have  heard  a  phoebe-bird  in  the 
early  July  morning  repeat  her  call  every  second 
from  dawn  to  sunrise,  probably  two  thousand  times 
or  more,  morning  after  morning.  When  the  mating 
fever  is  at  its  height  in  early  June,  I  have  heard  the 
whip-poor-will  vociferate  its  name  eight  or  nine 
hundred  times  in  as  many  seconds  without  the 
slightest  pause. 

One  season  an  indigo-bird  sang  on  the  edge  of  the 
259 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

wood  where  I  passed  daily  from  the  middle  of  May  to 
the  middle  of  August.  The  favorite  perch  of  the  bird 
was  on  a  dead  branch  in  the  top  of  a  beech-tree, 
and  on  a  particular  part  of  the  branch.  Day  after 
day  and  at  different  hours  I  noticed  the  little  song- 
ster perched  on  his  dead  branch  singing  his  brief, 
simple  song.  I  know  his  mate  had  a  nest  somewhere 
in  a  low  bush  within  earshot  of  the  singer,  but  I 
failed  to  find  it.  Long  after  the  young  must  have 
flown  he  kept  up  his  song  from  the  tree-top.  In  early 
August  he  was  still  singing  six  times  a  minute  when 
he  sang,  but  the  intervals  between  his  periods  of  song 
grew  longer  and  longer.  His  store  of  musical  energy 
was  slowly  running  down.  Not  often  now  did  he  sing 
a  minute  at  a  time. 

A  song  sparrow  that  sang  near  me  during  the 
morning  hours  through  May,  June,  and  July,  and 
that  had  at  least  five  distinct  songs  which  he  would 
sing  one  after  the  other,  repeating  each  one  from  ten 
to  twenty  times,  began  to  run  down  in  August.  His 
different  songs  lost  their  distinctness  and  emphasis. 
It  was  as  if  they  had  faded  and  become  blurred. 

Nearly  all  our  songbirds  are  equally  prodigal  of 
song  during  the  spring  and  early  summer.  It  is  the 
methodical  and  untiring  character  of  a  machine 
rather  than  conscious  effort. 

On  the  25th  of  July  at  five  in  the  afternoon  I  heard 
the  hermit  thrush  repeating  his  strain  with  mechan- 
ical regularity  ten  times  a  minute.  Undoubtedly  he 
260 


IN  FIELD  AND   WOOD 

had  been  doing  it  many  hours  a  day  since  early  May. 
On  the  same  day  I  heard  the  indigo-bird  repeating  its 
song  eight  times  a  minute,  many  times  during  the 
day. 

If  music  with  the  birds  was  an  art  that  they  learned 
as  we  do,  and  consciously  practiced  for  their  own 
and  others'  enjoyment,  we  should  most  assuredly 
have  far  less  of  it  than  we  do.  Reason  tires  and  gives 
up  much  sooner  than  instinct. 

Then,  the  musical  talent  is  a  fortuitous  and  un- 
certain thing  with  Homo  sapiens,  but  it  is  constant 
and  universal  with  the  thrushes  and  sparrows  and 
vireos.  Every  male  bird  of  these  species  sings,  and, 
except  in  rare  instances,  sings  as  well  as  its  fellow. 

Another  fact  that  shows  the  automatic  character 
of  bird-songs  is  this :  A  bird  with  a  defective  voice, 
as  occasionally  happens,  will  sing  as  persistently 
and  joyously  in  its  period  of  song  as  its  fellow  with 
the  perfect  voice.  I  have  heard  a  bobolink  with  a 
broken,  wheezy,  half-inarticulate  voice  hover  and 
sing  above  the  daisies  and  the  clover  as  gleefully  as 
the  bird  with  a  perfect  instrument.  It  sang,  not  for 
its  own  edification  or  the  edification  of  others,  but 
because  it  had  to.  It  was  wound  up  to  sing,  and 
sing  it  must,  be  the  result  never  so  defective. 

Music  in  the  insect  world  is  of  a  like  automatic 
character.  Their  fiddles  and  harps  and  drums  and 
cymbals  and  castanets  are  all  set  going  by  the  sea- 
son's warmth,  and  fail  as  the  warmth  fails,  as  surely 
261 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

as  the  water-wheel  stops  when  the  dam  is  empty  or 
the  stream  is  dry.  The  katydid  begins  by  vociferat- 
ing "  Katy  did  it,"  "Katy  did  it."  A  little  later  it 
says,  "Katydid."  After  the  first  frost  it  says, 
"Katy,"  "Katy,"  and  then  finally,  as  October 
wanes,  only  a  feeble,  "Kate,"  "Kate." 

Much  of  our  own  lives  is  undoubtedly  merely  auto- 
matic, the  result  of  habit,  of  family,  or  of  race  traits, 
or  of  unconscious  imitation;  but  with  the  lower  or- 
ders of  creation  a  much  larger  proportion,  say  ninety- 
nine  parts  in  one  hundred,  is  purely  automatic,  or 
the  result  of  blind,  inherited  impulses. 

ii 

Another  particular  hi  which  man  differs  from  all 
the  orders  below  him  is  this :  He  has  to  learn  what 
to  eat,  what  is  good  for  him.  His  dominant  impulse 
as  a  baby  is  to  put  into  his  mouth  everything  he 
can  seize,  no  matter  what  it  is,  stick  or  stone,  food 
or  fuel,  tool  or  toy.  He  looks  it  over,  and  then  into 
his  mouth  it  goes.  The  impulse  to  feed  is  strong,  but 
it  is  also  blind. 

The  young  of  no  other  animal  is  such  a  blunderer, 
or  so  omnivorous  a  devourer.  All  other  species  seem 
to  know  their  proper  food  instinctively,  but  man 
seems  born  with  only  the  blind  impulse  to  thrust  all 
things  into  his  mouth.  And  he  has  gone  on  thrust- 
ing all  things  into  his  mouth  and  surviving  the  ex- 
periment as  best  he  may.  There  is  no  doubt  what- 
262 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

ever  that  he  has  fed  upon  many  things,  and  is  still 
feeding  upon  many  things,  that  are  injurious  to  him. 

He  makes  dietetic  mistakes  that  the  lower  orders 
never  make.  Each  species  knows  its  proper  food  from 
the  jump,  and  all  individuals  of  that  species  thrive 
equally  well  upon  it.  There  are  no  eccentricities  of 
taste  or  caprices  of  digestion  among  them.  But  with 
us  what  is  one  man's  food  is  often  another  man's 
poison,  and  what  one  gloats  over,  another  may  ab- 
hor. 

Man's  stomach  is  the  battle-ground  of  his  life  in 
a  sense  that  is  not  true  of  the  stomach  of  his  dog  or 
his  horse  in  relation  to  their  lives.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  any  of  the  wild  or  self -fed  creatures  ever 
have  indigestion  or  any  of  the  many  ills  that  human 
flesh  is  heir  to.  If  given  a  chance,  nearly  all  of  the 
individuals  of  the  same  species  live  to  the  same  age, 
be  that  long  or  short.  There  is  no  infant  mortality 
among  them  as  among  us,  except  among  the  birds, 
which  storms  and  cold  often  decimate. 

It  is  a  theory  of  mine  that  nearly  all  our  ailments 
and  distempers  come  by  way  of  the  mouth,  and  that, 
if  we  could  keep  this  portal  properly  guarded,  we 
might  experience  the  same  immunity  from  disease 
that  the  lower  orders  do,  and  all  of  us  live  out  our 
appointed  days.  If  we  only  knew  just  what  to  eat 
and  how  much,  the  doctor  and  the  druggist  would 
soon  be  bankrupt.  Malnutrition  is  the  source  of 
most  of  our  woe. 

263 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

If  each  one  of  us  were  properly  fed,  so  that  our 
digestion  and  assimilation  were  as  perfect  as  that 
of  our  brute  neighbors,  we  should  doubtless  share 
their  unbroken  good  health.  We  should  resist  all 
germ  diseases  —  typhoid,  smallpox,  diphtheria, 
pneumonia,  tuberculosis;  the  germ  would  find  no 
soil  in  which  it  would  thrive.  Keep  the  blood  pure 
and  full,  and  we  are  self -armed  against  nearly  all 
human  ailments.  If  our  stomachs  were  properly 
fed,  there  would  be  no  appendicitis,  or  liver-com- 
plaint, or  rheumatism,  or  kidney-trouble,  or  pre- 
mature old  age.  Overwork  might  still  claim  its  vic- 
tims, and  excessive  grief  destroy  the  overemotional, 
but  there  would  be  fewer  of  each.  It  is  probable  that 
even  cancer  would  finally  disappear  from  a  race  per- 
fectly fed. 

But  we  goon  just  as  we  did  when  we  were  babies, 
putting  everything  into  our  mouths,  even  tobacco 
and  alcohol,  tea  and  coffee.  The  animal  is  stimulated 
by  its  food,  but  we  resort  to  all  sorts  of  artificial 
stimulants.  Of  course,  we  can't  live  as  the  animals 
or  the  savages  do.  Dining  with  us  is  a  fine  art;  but, 
if  it  were  a  perfect  art,  it  would  touch  nature  again, 
and  we  should  feed  as  sanely  as  the  birds  and  the 
squirrels  do.  We  should  not  corrupt  nature,  but  fol- 
low her. 

In  the  case  of  the  lower  animals  the  taste,  or  the 
appetite,  is  apparently  a  safe  guide.  What  the  crea- 
ture loves,  that  agrees  with  it,  or  vice  versa.  The  wild 
264 


IN  FIELD  AND   WOOD 

creatures  avoid  poisonous  plants  and  poisonous 
fruits.  Animals  in  domestication  are  sometimes 
poisoned  by  strange  plants  or  fruits,  because  they 
have  lost,  through  domestication,  the  self-directing 
wit  of  the  wild  creatures. 

With  man  his  appetite  is  not  a  safe  guide  any 
more  than  it  is  while  he  is  still  a  baby. 


in 

Animal  intelligence  differsf  rom  human  intelligence 
in  being  below  the  plane  of  consciousness.  It  is  a 
manifestation  of  the  intelligence  that  pervades  the 
universe.  Animals  know  not  what  they  do;  they  act 
without  forethought  or  self-knowledge.  They  are 
wise  as  nature  is  wise;  they  are  reasonable  as  the 
trees  and  plants  are  reasonable. 

The  plants  adapt  means  to  an  end  as  definitely  as 
man  does;  they  clothe  themselves  against  the  cold; 
they  protect  themselves  against  the  heat;  they  de- 
velop hooks  and  springs  and  wings  to  scatter  their 
seed;  some  of  them  perfect  curious  mechanical  de- 
vices to  secure  cross-fertilization;  they  swim,  they 
fly,  they  walk,  they  catch  a  ride,  to  disperse  them- 
selves over  the  earth;  they  develop  bladders  to  float 
by,  tendrils  and  suckers  to  climb  with,  gum  and  var- 
nish against  the  rain;  they  use  anchors,  they  employ 
traps,  they  store  food;  indeed,  the  vegetable  king- 
dom holds  the  original  patent  for  many  of  our  de- 
265 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

vices  for  getting  on  in  the  world.  And  what  the  vege- 
table does  not  hold,  the  animal  does. 

These  devices  all  imply  intelligence  and  foresight 
in  adapting  means  to  an  end,  but  it  differs  from  hu- 
man intelligence  as  does  that  of  the  lower  animals 
in  not  yet  having  come  to  a  knowledge  of  itself. 
Their  wisdom,  their  prudence,  their  reason,  is  that 
of  the  whole  of  nature.  The  acquired,  the  individual, 
the  experimental  wisdom  of  man  is  quite  another 
thing.  The  plants  profit  by  experience  also,  but  they 
profit  slowly,  through  race-discipline.  Neither  the 
plant  nor  the  animal  can  set  the  environment  at 
naught  —  turn  winter  into  summer,  wet  into  dry,  the 
adverse  into  the  favorable  —  as  can  man. 

The  animals  do  not  know  what  they  do  any  more 
than  we  know  what  we  are  doing  when  we  do  a  thing 
from  habit,  or,  as  we  say,  in  an  absent  frame  of  mind, 
or  than  the  sleep-walker  knows  what  he  is  doing. 
Indeed,  animal  behavior  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  kind 
of  sleep-walking,  an  unconscious  performance  of 
what  are  often  difficult  feats. 

Yesterday  I  saw  a  cat  stalking  a  chipmunk  on  the 
top  of  the  stonework ;  while  the  chipmunk  had  his  eye 
on  her,  she  crouched  low  and  kept  perfectly  still; 
then,  as  the  chipmunk  disappeared  beneath  the 
stones,  the  cat,  after  a  little  delay,  rushed  to  the 
place,  and  looked  quickly  right  and  left  and  up  and 
down  to  make  sure  not  to  miss  him  if  he  were  still 
in  view,  or  should  suddenly  emerge  from  his  hiding. 
266 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

The  cat's  action  was  precisely  what  yours  or  mine 
would  have  been  under  the  same  circumstances. 
Now,  shall  we  say  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  prob- 
lem as  you  or  I  would  have  been?  No,  she  has  no 
conscious  thought  at  all.  Nature  thought  for  her. 
She  was  the  instrument  of  an  intelligence  not  her 
own.  She  reasoned  no  more  than  the  clouds  reason 
when  they  drop  rain,  or  than  the  roots  of  a  tree  rea- 
son when  they  go  toward  the  water,  or  than  the  vine 
reasons  when  it  reaches  out  its  tendrils  for  support. 

All  such  acts  on  the  part  of  the  animals  of  prey 
—  stalking,  circling,  waiting,  and  the  like  —  show 
the  action  of  mind;  but  it  is  mind  below  the  level  of 
consciousness.  The  action  of  the  cat  was  like  yours 
or  mine  when  we  do  not  think  what  we  are  doing.  It 
is  this  power  of  thought,  which  knows  itself,  and 
takes  account  of  itself,  that  constitutes  the  gulf  be- 
tween man  and  his  brute  kindred. 

IV.  BIRD-NESTING  TIME 

The  other  day  I  sat  for  an  hour  watching  a  pair  of 
wood  thrushes  engaged  in  building  their  nest  near 
"Slabsides."  I  say  a  pair,  though  the  female  really 
did  all  the  work.  The  male  hung  around  and  was 
evidently  an  interested  spectator  of  the  proceeding. 
The  mother  bird  was  very  busy  bringing  and  placing 
the  material,  consisting  mainly  of  dry  maple  leaves 
which  the  winter  had  made  thin  and  soft,  and  which 
were  strewn  over  the  ground  all  about.  How  pretty 
267 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

she  looked,  running  over  the  ground,  now  in  shade, 
now  in  sunshine,  searching  for  the  leaves  that  were 
just  to  her  fancy!  Sometimes  she  would  seize  two 
or  more  and  with  a  quick,  soft  flight  bear  them  to 
the  fork  of  the  little  maple  sapling.  Every  five  or  six 
minutes  during  her  absence,  the  male  would  come 
and  inspect  her  work.  He  would  look  it  over,  arrange 
a  leaf  or  two  with  his  beak,  and  then  go  his  way. 
Twice  he  sat  down  in  the  nest  and  worked  his  feet 
and  pressed  it  with  his  breast,  as  if  shaping  it.  When 
the  female  found  him  there  on  her  return,  he  quickly 
got  out  of  her  way. 

But  he  brought  no  material,  he  did  no  needful 
thing,  he  was  a  bird  of  leisure.  The  female  did  all 
the  drudgery,  and  with  what  an  air  of  grace  and  ease 
she  did  it !  So  soft  of  wing,  so  trim  of  form,  so  pretty 
of  pose,  and  so  gentle  in  every  movement!  It  was 
evidently  no  drudgery  to  her;  the  material  was 
handy,  and  the  task  one  of  love.  All  the  behavior  of 
the  wood  thrush  affects  one  like  music;  it  is  melody 
to  the  eye  as  the  song  is  to  the  ear;  it  is  visible  har- 
mony. This  bird  cannot  do  an  ungraceful  thing.  It 
has  the  bearing  of  a  bird  of  fine  breeding.  Its  cousin 
the  robin  is  much  more  masculine  and  plebeian, 
harsher  in  voice,  and  ruder  in  manners.  The  wood 
thrush  is  urban  and  suggests  sylvan  halls  and  courtly 
companions.  Softness,  gentleness,  composure,  char- 
acterize every  movement.  In  only  a  few  instances 
among  our  birds  does  the  male  assist  in  nest-building. 


IN  FIELD  AND   WOOD 

He  is  usually  only  a  gratuitous  superintendent  of 
the  work.  The  male  oriole  visits  the  half-finished 
structure  of  his  mate,  looks  it  over,  tugs  at  the  strings 
now  and  then  as  if  to  try  them,  and,  I  suppose,  has 
his  own  opinion  about  the  work,  but  I  have  never 
seen  him  actually  lend  a  hand  and  bring  a  string 
or  a  hair.  If  I  belonged  to  our  sentimental  school  of 
nature  writers  I  might  say  that  he  is  too  proud,  that 
it  is  against  the  traditions  of  his  race  and  family; 
but  probably  the  truth  is  that  he  does  n't  know  how; 
that  the  nest-building  instinct  is  less  active  in  him 
than  in  his  mate;  that  he  is  not  impelled  by  the  same 
necessity.  It  is  easy  to  be  seen  how  important  it  is 
that  the  nesting  instinct  should  be  strong  in  the 
female,  whether  it  is  or  not  in  the  male.  The  male 
may  be  cut  off  and  yet  the  nest  be  built  and  the 
family  reared.  Among  the  rodents  I  fancy  the  nest 
is  always  built  by  the  female. 

Whatever  the  explanation,  the  mother  bird  is 
really  the  head  of  the  family;  she  is  the  most  active 
in  nest-building,  and  in  most  cases  in  the  care  of  the 
young;  and  among  birds  of  prey,  as  among  insects, 
the  female  is  the  larger  and  the  more  powerful. 

The  wood  thrush  whose  nest-building  I  have  just 
described,  laid  only  one  egg,  and  an  abnormal-looking 
egg  at  that  —  very  long  and  both  ends  of  the  same 
size.  But  to  my  surprise  out  of  the  abnormal-look- 
ing egg  came  in  due  time  a  normal-looking  chick 
which  grew  to  birdhood  without  any  mishaps.  The 
269 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

late,  cold  season  and  the  consequent  scarcity  of  food 
was  undoubtedly  the  cause  of  so  small  a  family. 

Another  pair  of  wood  thrushes  built  a  nest  on  the 
low  branch  of  a  maple  by  the  roadside,  where  I  had 
it  under  daily  observation.  This  nest  presently  held 
three  eggs,  two  of  which  hatched  in  due  time,  and 
for  a  few  days  the  young  seemed  to  prosper.  Then 
one  morning,  I  noticed  the  mother  bird  sitting  in  a 
silent,  meditative  way  on  the  edge  of  the  nest.  As  she 
made  no  move  during  the  minute  or  two  while  I 
watched  her,  I  drew  near  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. I  found  one  of  the  young  birds  in  a  state  of  ut- 
ter collapse ;  it  was  cold  and  all  but  lifeless.  The  next 
morning  I  found  the  bird  again  sitting  motionless  on 
the  rim  of  the  nest  and  gazing  into  it.  I  found  one 
of  the  birds  dead  and  the  other  nearly  so.  What  had 
brought  about  the  disaster  I  could  not  tell;  no  cause 
was  apparent.  I  at  first  suspected  vermin,  but  could 
detect  none.  The  silent,  baffled  look  of  the  mother 
bird  I  shall  not  soon  forget.  There  was  no  demon- 
stration of  grief  or  alarm;  only  a  brooding,  puzzled 
look. 

I  once  witnessed  similar  behavior  on  the  part  of 
a  pair  of  bluebirds  that  were  rearing  a  brood  in  a  box 
on  a  grape  post  near  my  study.  One  day  I  chanced 
to  observe  one  of  the  parent  birds  at  the  entrance 
of  the  nest,  gazing  long  and  intently  in.  In  the  course 
of  the  day  I  saw  this  act  several  times,  and  in  no  case 
did  the  bird  enter  the  box  with  food  as  it  had  been 
270 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

doing.  Then  I  investigated  and  found  the  nearly 
fledged  birds  all  dead.  On  removing  them  I  found 
the  nest  infested  with  many  dark,  tough-skinned, 
very  active  worms  or  grubs  nearly  an  inch  long,  that 
had  apparently  sucked  the  blood  out  of  the  bodies 
of  the  fledglings.  They  were  probably  the  larvae  of 
some  species  of  beetle  unknown  to  me.  The  parent 
birds  had  looked  on  and  seen  their  young  destroyed, 
and  made  no  effort  to  free  the  nest  of  their  enemy. 
Or  probably  they  had  not  suspected  what  was  going 
on,  or  did  not  understand  it  if  they  beheld  it.  Their 
instincts  were  not  on  the  alert  for  an  enemy  so 
subtle,  and  one  springing  up  in  the  nest  itself.  Any 
visible  danger  from  without  alarmed  them  instantly, 
but  here  was  a  new  foe  that  doubtless  they  had 
never  before  had  to  cope  with. 

The  oriole  in  her  nest-building  seems  more  fickle 
than  most  other  birds.  I  have  known  orioles  several 
times  to  begin  a  nest  and  then  leave  it  and  go  else- 
where. Last  year  one  started  a  nest  in  an  oak  near 
my  study,  then  after  a  few  days  of  hesitating  labor 
left  it  and  selected  the  traditional  site  of  her  race, 
the  pendent  branch  of  an  elm  by  the  roadside. 
This  time  she  behaved  like  a  wise  bird  and  came 
back  for  some  of  the  material  of  the  abandoned 
nest.  She  had  attached  a  single  piece  of  twine  to 
the  oak  branch,  and  this  she  could  not  leave  behind; 
twine  was  too  useful  and  too  hard  to  get.  So  I  saw 
her  tugging  at  this  string  till  she  loosened  it,  then 
271 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

flew  toward  the  elm  with  it  trailing  in  the  air  be- 
hind her.  I  could  but  smile  at  her  thrift.  The  sec- 
ond nest  she  completed  and  occupied  and  doubtless 
found  her  pendent-nest  instinct  fully  satisfied  by 
the  high  swaying  elm  branch. 

One  of  our  prettiest  nest-builders  is  the  junco  or 
snowbird;  in  fact,  it  builds  the  prettiest  nest  to  be 
found  upon  the  ground,  I  think  —  more  massive 
and  finely  moulded  and  finished  than  that  of  the 
song  sparrow.  I  find  it  only  in  .the  Catskills,  or 
on  their  borders,  often  in  a  mossy  bank  by  the 
roadside,  in  the  woods,  or  on  their  threshold.  With 
what  delicate  and  consummate  art  it  is  insinu- 
ated into  the  wild  scene,  like  some  shy  thing  that 
grew  there,  visible,  yet  hidden  by  its  perfect  fitness 
and  harmony  with  its  surroundings.  The  mother 
bird  darts  out  but  a  few  yards  from  you  as  you  drive 
or  walk  along,  but  your  eye  is  baffled  for  some 
moments  before  you  have  her  secret.  Such  a  keen, 
feather-edged,  not  to  say  spiteful  little  body,  with 
the  emphasis  of  those  two  pairs  of  white  quills  in 
her  tail  given  to  every  movement,  and  yet,  a  less 
crabbed,  less  hasty  nest,  softer  and  more  suggestive 
of  shy  sylvan  ways,  than  is  hers,  would  be  hard  to 
find. 

One  day  I  was  walking  along  the  grassy  borders 

of  a  beech  and  maple  wood  with  a  friend  wlien,  as 

we  came  to  a  little  low  mound  of  moss  and  grass, 

scarcely  a  foot  high,  I  said,  "This  is  just  the  spot 

272 


IN  FIELD  AND   WOOD 

for  a  junco's  nest,"  and  as  I  stooped  down  to  examine 
it,  out  flew  the  bird.  I  had  divined  better  than  I  knew. 
What  a  pretty  secret  that  little  footstool  of  moss  and 
grass-covered  earth  held !  How  exquisite  the  nest, 
how  exquisite  the  place,  how  choice  and  harmonious 
the  whole  scene !  How  could  these  eggs  long  escape 
the  prowling  foxes,  skunks,  coons,  the  sharp-eyed 
crows,  the  searching  mice  and  squirrels?  They  did 
not  escape;  in  a  day  or  two  they  were  gone. 

Another  junco's  nest  beside  a  Catskill  trout  stream 
sticks  in  my  memory.  It  was  in  an  open  grassy 
place  amid  the  trees  and  bushes  near  the  highway. 
There  were  ladies  in  our  trouting  party  and  I  called 
them  to  come  and  see  the  treasure  I  had  found. 

"Where  is  it?"  one  of  them  said,  as  she  stopped 
and  looked  around  a  few  paces  from  me. 

"  It  is  within  six  feet  of  you,"  I  replied.  She  looked 
about,  incredulous,  as  it  seemed  an  unlikely  place  for 
a  nest  of  any  sort,  so  open  was  it,  and  so  easily  swept 
by  the  first  glance. 

As  she  stepped  along,  perplexed,  I  said,  "  Now  it 
is  within  one  yard  of  you."  She  thought  I  was  joking ; 
but  stooping  down,  determined  not  to  be  baffled,  she 
espied  it  sheltered  by  a  thin,  mossy  stone  that  stood 
up  seven  or  eight  inches  above  the  turf,  tilted  at 
an  angle  of  about  that  of  one  side  of  a  house-roof. 
Under  this  the  nest  was  tucked,  sheltered  from  the 
sun  and  ram,  and  hidden  from  all  but  the  sharpest 
eye. 

273 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

V.  WEASEL  AND  RABBIT 

How  the  weasel  catches  the  rabbit  seems  to  be  a 
mooted  question.  That  he  does  catch  him,  every 
hunter  and  woodsman  knows,  but  how,  since  the 
rabbit  is  much  fleeter  of  foot?  Some  persons  think 
the  weasel  stalks  the  rabbit,  or  mines  down  under 
him  in  the  snow  and  thus  seizes  him  in  his  form,  or 
outwits  him  by  some  other  strategy. 

My  own  observations,  as  well  as  those  of  many 
others,  lead  me  to  believe  that  the  weasel  inspires 
the  rabbit  with  such  terror  that  the  poor  beast  is 
in  a  measure  paralyzed  and  falls  an  easy  victim. 

One  morning  after  a  light  fall  of  snow,  during  my 
walk  through  the  fields  and  woods  I  saw  a  rabbit- 
track  and  a  mink-track  together.  I  followed  the 
trail  to  see  what  had  happened.  I  had  not  gone 
far  when  I  discovered  tufts  of  rabbit-fur  upon  the 
snow;  a  few  yards  farther  and  there  were  drops  of 
blood,  the  rabbit's  leaps  growing  shorter  and 
shorter,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  came  upon  the 
half-devoured  body  of  the  rabbit  lying  in  the  open. 
That  the  mink  had  run  the  rabbit  down  and  caught 
him  was  as  plain  as  the  snow  record  could  be.  There 
was  no  hiding  under  the  snow  by  the  mink  and  not 
the  least  evidence  that  the  rabbit  had  been  surprised. 
Rabbits  see  behind  them  quite  as  readily  as  before, 
and  I  doubt  if  any  animal  could  steal  upon  a  moving 
rabbit  at  night  and  not  be  seen. 
274 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

The  rabbit  is  a  nocturnal  animal.  It  does  not  sit 
in  its  form  at  night  to  be  stalked  by  its  enemies,  or 
to  be  taken  by  any  sapping  and  mining  process.  In 
daylight  a  weasel  might  steal  upon  it  and  seize  it  in 
its  form,  but  not  by  night.  In  my  part  of  the  coun- 
try, the  rabbit  runs  to  hole  in  the  winter  and  passes 
the  day  there.  The  boys  catch  it  with  ferrets.  The 
minks  and  weasels  catch  it  in  its  hole  alone.  My 
hired  man,  who  is  an  old  hunter,  tells  me  he  once  saw 
upon  the  snow  where  a  mink  had  brought  a  rabbit 
out  of  a  hole  and  carried  it  a  long  distance  to  his 
den.  He  followed  the  trail  and  saw  by  the  imprint 
upon  the  snow  that  every  little  while  the  mink  had 
had  to  lay  down  his  burden  and  rest. 

Five  men  live  near  me  who  spend  much  of  their 
time  in  winter  hunting  and  trapping.  They  are  keen 
observers  and  perfectly  reliable;  what  they  tell  me 
they  have  seen  I  accept  as  freely  as  if  I  had  seen  it 
myself.  I  might  not  always  accept  then-  inferences 
from,  or  other  interpretations  of,  what  they  had 
seen,  but  the  fact  itself  I  never  question. 

One  of  these  men  told  me  that  one  autumn  day 
after  the  first  snow-fall,  in  his  walk  he  came  upon  a 
rabbit-track  followed  by  that  of  a  weasel.  He  took 
up  the  trail  and  presently  in  a  clear,  open  place  in  the 
woods  he  came  upon  the  dead  rabbit  still  in  the 
clutches  of  the  weasel.  The  rabbit  was  warm  and 
limp.  The  marks  upon  the  snow  showed  that  the 
weasel  had  caught  the  rabbit  in  the  open  when  the 
275 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

latter  was  still  running,  but  running  in  a  feeble, 
hesitating  manner. 

Another  trapper  told  me  a  similar  story.  He  saw 
upon  the  snow  where  a  mink  had  run  a  rabbit 
round  a  small  hill.  They  had  made  the  circuit 
several  times,  the  rabbit's  leaps  growing  shorter  and 
shorter,  until  at  last  the  mink  had  seized  it  and  drunk 
its  blood  and  eaten  a  hole  in  its  neck.  I  can  account 
for  such  things  upon  no  other  theory  than  that  the 
rabbit,  when  it  finds  itself  followed  by  its  deadly 
enemy,  gradually  becomes  paralyzed  with  fear  and 
falls  an  easy  victim.  No  doubt  the  lynx  and  the  wild- 
cat and  the  fox  waylay  the  rabbit  at  night  as  a  cat 
does  a  mouse  or  a  squirrel,  but  the  weasel  tribe  fol- 
low it  and  are  as  relentless  as  fate  itself.  A  rat  pur- 
sued by  a  weasel  is  fairly  beside  itself  with  fear,  and 
has  been  known  to  take  refuge  in  a  bed  where  a  man 
was  sleeping,  in  order  to  escape.  A  chicken  or  a  hen 
pursued  by  a  weasel  is  in  a  perfect  panic  of  fright, 
and  I  have  seen  the  pursuing  weasel  follow  the  flee- 
ing and  screaming  fowl  to  my  very  feet,  when  he 
seized  it  and  was  pinned  to  earth  by  my  boot.  I  saw 
him  catch  the  full-grown  chicken;  why  could 
he  not  catch  a  rabbit?  When  I  seized  him  with  my 
thumb  and  finger  back  of  the  ears  and  held  him  so 
he  could  not  bite  me,  did  ever  anything  look  so  fierce 
and  devilish  as  this  creature  did?  His  eyes  fairly 
burned.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  see  the  blood  of  his 
victims  aflame  in  them.  I  dashed  him  fiercely  upon 
276 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

the  ground  and  set  my  fox-terrier  upon  him,  but 
the  weasel  got  in  the  first  bite  every  time  and  would 
have  escaped  had  I  not  again  set  my  foot  upon 
him.  I  think  the  weasel  quite  capable  of  sneaking 
upon  his  prey,  but  in  all  the  cases  that  have  come 
under  my  observation,  from  chipmunks  to  domes- 
tic fowls,  he  seizes  his  victim  when  it  is  in  flight. 

I  have  known  a  weasel  to  drive  a  chipmunk  to 
the  topmost  branch  of  a  tall  tree,  and  when  he  was 
about  to  seize  it,  the  chipmunk  let  go  its  hold  and 
fell  with  a  cry  of  despair.  In  its  descent  it  caught  by 
chance  on  a  limb  to  which  it  clung,  a  picture  of 
abject  terror,  till  the  weasel  gave  up  the  search  and 
left  the  tree,  when  the  chipmunk,  after  a  long  wait- 
ing, timidly  crept  down  to  the  earth. 

More  light  is  thrown  upon  this  question  by  let- 
ters I  have  recently  received  from  two  correspon- 
dents, one  from  Kansas  and  one  from  Alaska.  The 
incidents  given  agree  so  well  with  my  own  obser- 
vations that  I  have  no  doubt  about  their  truth.  The 
Skagway  correspondent  writes:  "The  manners  in 
which  the  slim  and  aggressive  weasel  catches  the 
rabbit  may  be  many,  but  on  two  occasions  I  saw  the 
deed  done.  The  first  time  I  was  driving  across  a  field 
of  wheat  stubble  in  the  west  of  England,  and,  hearing 
the  scream  of  a  rabbit,  I  looked  about  for  the  cause, 
and  saw  a  weasel  chasing  one  with  leaps  and  bounds 
somewhat  like  the  movements  of  a  snake,  but  more 
rapid.  The  rabbit  finally  stopped,  apparently  from 
277 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

fear,  and  the  weasel  caught  it  and  had  killed  it  before 
I  got  near  them.  When  I  reached  them,  I  jumped 
out  and  picked  up  the  rabbit  with  the  weasel  still 
holding  fast,  but  I  finally  shook  it  off  and  it  hid  itself 
in  a  thorn  hedge  near  by.  Having  no  use  for  the 
rabbit,  I  dropped  it  on  the  ground  and  drove  on  a 
bit,  when  I  stopped  and  looked  back,  curious  to  see 
what  would  happen.  The  weasel,  feeling  safe  and 
no  doubt  hungry,  returned  to  its  kill  and  dragged  it 
into  the  long  grasses  and  plants  of  the  hedgerow. 

"  Another  time,  while  musing  and  anon  casting  a 
fly  over  the  placid  waters  of  a  favorite  trout  stream 
in  the  same  locality,  I  was  startled  by  a  rabbit 
jumping  into  the  pool  and  swimming  to  the  other 
side,  followed  in  a  moment  or  so  by  a  weasel,  who 
also  took  to  the  water,  being  so  close  that  he  evi- 
dently saw  the  rabbit.  They  both  disappeared  in 
the  vegetation  beyond,  but  hearing  the  rabbit's 
plaintive  cry  shortly  after,  was  evidence  to  me  that 
another  tragedy  had  been  enacted." 

My  Kansas  correspondent,  a  lawyer,  tells  me  of  an 
incident  related  to  him  by  an  old  Pennsylvania  friend, 
a  man  of  prominence  and  absolutely  reliable.  This 
time  the  weasel  was  pursuing  a  rat.  While  standing 
in  a  large  cellar  under  a  stonework,  he  heard  a  rat 
scream  with  the  most  evident  fear  and  distress. 
"  Looking  in  the  direction  of  the  noise,  he  saw  a  very 
large  store  rat  running  rapidly  along  the  cellar  floor 
and  up  the  stairway;  the  rat  went  to  the  outer  edge, 
278 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

so  as  to  look  back  over  the  track  it  had  come,  and 
there  crouched  down,  shivering  with  apparent  fear. 
Mr.  Kerr  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  know  what  had  dis- 
turbed the  rat,  but  in  a  little  while  noticed  a  weasel 
coming  along  the  cellar  floor  and  on  the  track  of  the 
rat.  The  weasel  came  much  more  slowly  than  the 
rat  had  come,  as  it  had  to  follow  the  trail  entirely 
by  scent.  Mr.  Kerr  was  standing  near  the  rat  all  this 
time  and  watching  it.  As  the  weasel  drew  near  the 
stairway,  the  rat  began  to  scream  again.  By  this 
time  the  weasel  saw  Mr.  Kerr.  It  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment and  eyed  him  intently,  and  then,  as  if  in  con- 
tempt of  him,  passed  on  and  rushed  upon  the  rat 
with  a  ferocity  and  indifference  almost  incredible 
for  so  small  an  animal.  The  rat  simply  cowered  and 
screamed  and  made  no  resistance  whatever.  The 
weasel  seized  the  rat  around  the  neck  with  its  fore 
paws  and  fastened  its  teeth  in  the  rat's  throat  in  a 
mere  instant  of  time,  and  the  struggle  was  over  be- 
fore it  could  be  said  to  have  fairly  begun. 

"That  an  animal  so  combative  as  the  rat,  and  es- 
pecially one  so  large  as  the  one  in  the  present  in- 
stance (for  it  was,  if  anything,  heavier  than  the 
weasel)  should  yield  without  a  struggle,  Mr.  Kerr 
says,  filled  him  with  astonishment,  as  did  also  the 
fact  that  the  rat,  though  having  a  free  field  and 
abundance  of  time  to  fly  out  of  the  cellar,  or  to  seek 
refuge  elsewhere  in  the  many  holes  in  the  walls  of 
the  cellar,  failed  to  do  so.  He  says  he  scarcely  could 
279 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

have  credited  the  transaction  had  it  been  related  to 
him  by  others  and  not  seen  by  himself,  and  he  re- 
gards it  as  one  of  the  strangest,  and  most  unexpected 
experiences  of  his  life,  and  he  has  been  a  man  of 
much  experience  and  affairs." 

Very  recently  in  my  own  neighborhood,  two  hunt- 
ers well  known  to  me  were  in  the  woods  when  they 
saw  what  they  at  first  took  to  be  two  red  squirrels 
chasing  each  other  round  the  bole  of  a  tree.  On 
coming  nearer,  they  saw  that  there  was  but  one  red 
squirrel,  and  that  it  was  being  hotly  chased  by  a 
weasel.  The  squirrel  was  nearly  tired  out  and  must 
soon  have  fallen  a  victim  to  its  arch  enemy  had  not 
the  hunters  shot  the  weasel.  Why  the  squirrel  did 
not  lead  off  through  the  tree-tops,  where  the  weasel 
could  not  have  followed  him,  is  another  instance 
of  the  mystery  that  envelops  this  question. 

The  story  of  my  Alaskan  correspondent  indicates 
that  in  Great  Britain  as  well  as  in  this  country  the 
weasel  tribe  has  the  same  mysterious  power  over 
the  rabbit.  Additional  evidence  of  this  is  given  by 
an  English  correspondent  who  writes  me:  "I  once 
saw  a  stoat  chasing  a  hare  on  a  country  road.  The 
hare  was  going  very  slowly  and  haltingly ;  the  stoat 
was  close  upon  it,  and  soon  would  have  caught  it  had 
I  not  driven  it  away  from  the  hare.  My  father,  who 
was  with  me,  told  me  then  of  the  paralyzing  effect 
the  sight  of  a  stoat  had  upon  a  hare,  as  did  three  or 
four  other  men  to  whom  I  related  the  incident."  This 
280 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

correspondent  concludes  his  letter  with  an  extract 
from  a  paper  in  the  London  "  Graphic"  for  Decem- 
ber 4, 1909,  called  "The  Hypnotized  Hare  ":  "The 
most  piteous  of  all  the  voices  of  the  night  is  the  cry 
of  the  hare  in  the  clutches  of  a  stoat.  Now  this 
tragedy,  which  is  fairly  common,  has  an  element  of 
mystery  about  it  which  has  never  been  solved.  A 
hare,  of  course,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things  could 
easily  outstrip  a  stoat,  and  yet  when  a  hare  knows 
that  the  deadly  foe  is  on  its  track,  instead  of  putting 
forth  all  its  swiftness,  it  labors  along  with  the  heavy 
gait  with  which  one  tries  to  escape  from  an  enemy 
in  a  nightmare.  The  movements  .  .  .  suggest  that 
the  stoat  has  some  occult  power  of  hypnotizing  its 
quarry  and  paralyzing  its  power  of  flight." 

VI.  WILD  LIFE  IN  WINTER 

To  many  forms  of  life  of  our  northern  lands, 
winter  means  a  long  sleep ;  to  others  it  means  what  it 
means  to  many  fortunate  human  beings  —  travels 
in  warm  climes ;  to  still  others,  who  again  have  their 
human  prototypes,  it  means  a  struggle,  more  or  less 
fierce,  to  keep  soul  and  body  together;  while  to  many 
insect  forms  it  means  death. 

Most  of  the  flies  and  beetles,  wasps  and  hornets, 
moths,  butterflies,  and  bumblebees  die.  The  grass- 
hoppers all  die,  with  eggs  for  next  season's  crop 
deposited  in  the  ground.  Some  of  the  butterflies 
winter  over.  The  mourning  cloak,  the  first  butter- 
281 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

fly  to  be  seen  in  spring,  has  passed  the  winter  in  my 
"  Slabsides."  The  monarch  migrates,  probably  the 
only  one  of  our  butterflies  that  does.  It  is  a  great 
flyer.  I  have  seen  it  in  the  fall  sailing  serenely  along 
over  the  inferno  of  New  York  streets.  It  has  crossed 
the  ocean  and  is  spreading  over  the  world.  The 
yellow  and  black  hornets  lose  heart  as  autumn  comes 
on,  desert  their  paper  nests  and  die  —  all  but  the 
queen  or  mother  hornet  ;  she  hunts  out  a  retreat  in 
the  ground  and  passes  the  winter  beyond  the  reach 
of  frost.  In  the  spring  she  comes  forth  and  begins 
life  anew,  starting  a  little  cone-shaped  paper  nest, 
building  a  few  paper  cells,  laying  an  egg  in  each,  and 
thus  starting  the  new  colony. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  bumblebees;  they  are 
the  creatures  of  a  summer.  In  August,  when  the 
flowers  fail,  the  colony  breaks  up,  they  desert  the  nest 
and  pick  up  a  precarious  subsistence  on  asters  and 
thistles  till  the  frosts  of  October  cut  them  off.  You 
may  often  see,  in  late  September  or  early  October, 
these  tramp  bees  passing  the  night  or  a  cold  rain- 
storm on  the  lee  side  of  a  thistle-head.  The  queen 
bee  alone  survives.  You  never  see  her  playing  the 
vagabond  in  the  fall.  At  least  I  never  have.  She 
hunts  out  a  retreat  in  the  ground  and  passes  the 
winter  there,  doubtless  in  a  torpid  state,  as  she 
stores  no  food  against  the  inclement  season.  Emer- 
son has  put  this  fact  into  his  poem  on  '  *  The  Humble- 


282 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

"  When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us. 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous." 

In  early  August  of  the  past  year  I  saw  a  queen  bum- 
blebee quickly  enter  a  small  hole  on  the  edge  of  the 
road  where  there  was  no  nest.  It  was  probably  her 
winter  quarters. 

If  one  could  take  the  cover  off  the  ground  in  the 
fields  and  woods  in  winter,  or  have  some  magic 
ointment  put  upon  his  eyes  that  would  enable  him 
to  see  through  opaque  substances,  how  many  curious 
and  interesting  forms  of  life  he  would  behold  in  the 
ground  beneath  his  feet  as  he  took  his  winter  walk — 
life  with  the  fires  banked,  so  to  speak,  and  just  keep- 
ing till  spring.  He  would  see  the  field  crickets  in 
their  galleries  in  the  ground  in  a  dormant  state, 
all  their  machinery  of  life  brought  to  a  standstill 
by  the  cold.  He  would  see  the  ants  in  their  hills 
and  in  their  tunnels  in  decaying  trees  and  logs,  as 
inert  as  the  soil  or  the  wood  they  inhabit.  I  have 
chopped  many  a  handful  of  the  big  black  ants  out 
of  a  log  upon  my  woodpile  in  winter,  stiff,  but  not 
dead,  with  the  frost,  and  brought  them  in  by  the  fire 
to  see  their  vital  forces  set  going  again  by  the  heat. 
I  have  brought  in  the  grubs  of  borers  and  the  big 
fat  grubs  of  beetles,  turned  out  of  their  winter  beds 
in  old  logs  by  my  axe  and  frozen  like  ice-cream,  and 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

have  seen  the  spark  of  life  rekindle  in  them  on  the 
hearth. 

With  this  added  visual  power,  one  would  see  the 
wood  frogs  and  the  hylas  in  their  winter  beds  but  a 
few  inches  beneath  the  moss  and  leaf -mould,  one 
here  and  one  there,  cold,  inert,  biding  their  time.  I 
dug  a  wood  frog  out  one  December  and  found  him 
not  frozen,  though  the  soil  around  him  was  full  of 
frost;  he  was  alive  but  not  frisky.  A  friend  of  mine 
once  found  one  in  the  woods  sitting  upon  the  snow 
one  day  in  early  winter.  She  carried  him  home  with 
her,  and  he  burrowed  in  the  soil  of  her  flower-pot 
and  came  out  all  right  in  the  spring.  What  brought 
him  out  upon  the  snow  in  December  one  would 
like  to  know. 

One  would  see  the  tree-frogs  in  the  cavities  of  old 
trees,  wrapped  in  their  winter  sleep  —  which  is  yet 
not  a  sleep,  but  suspended  animation.  When  the 
day  is  warm,  or  the  January  thaw  comes,  I  fancy  the 
little  frog  feels  it  and  stirs  in  his  bed.  One  would 
see  the  warty  toads  squatted  in  the  soil  two  or  three 
feet  below  the  surface,  in  the  same  way.  Probably 
not  till  April  will  the  spell  which  the  winter  has  put 
upon  them  be  broken.  I  have  seen  a  toad  go  into 
the  ground  in  late  fall.  He  literally  elbows  his  way 
into  it,  going  down  backwards. 

Beneath  rocks  or  in  cavities  at  the  end  of  some 
small  hole  in  the  ground,  one  would  see  a  ball  or 
tangle  of  garter  snakes,  or  black  snakes,  or  copper- 
284 


IN  FIELD   AND   WOOD 

heads  —  dozens  of  individual  snakes  of  that  locality 
entwined  in  one  many-headed  mass,  conserving  in 
this  united  way  their  animal  heat  against  the  cold  of 
winter.  One  spring  my  neighbor  in  the  woods  dis- 
covered such  a  winter  retreat  of  the  copperheads, 
and,  visiting  the  place  many  times  during  the  warm 
April  days,  he  killed  about  forty  snakes,  and  since 
that  slaughter,  the  copperheads  have  been  at  a  pre- 
mium in  our  neighborhood. 

Here  and  there,  near  the  fences  and  along  the 
borders  of  the  wood,  these  X-ray  eyes  would  see  the 
chipmunk  at  the  end  of  his  deep  burrow  with  his  store 
of  nuts  or  grains,  sleeping  fitfully  but  not  dormant. 
The  frost  does  not  reach  him  and  his  stores  are  at 
hand.  One  which  we  dug  out  in  late  October  had 
nearly  four  quarts  of  weed-seeds  and  cherry-pits. 
He  will  hardly  be  out  before  March,  and  then,  like 
his  big  brother  rodent  the  woodchuck,  and  other 
winter  sleepers,  his  fancy  will  quickly  "turn  to 
thoughts  of  love." 

One  would  see  the  woodchuck  asleep  in  his  burrow, 
snugly  rolled  up  and  living  on  his  own  fat.  All  the 
hibernating  animals  that  keep  up  respiration,  must 
have  sustenance  of  some  sort  —  either  a  store  of 
food  at  hand  or  a  store  of  fat  in  their  own  bodies. 
The  woodchuck,  the  bear,  the  coon,  the  skunk,  the 
'possum,  lay  up  a  store  of  fuel  in  their  own  bodies, 
and  they  come  out  in  the  spring  lean  and  hungry. 
The  squirrels  are  lean  the  year  through,  and  hence 
285 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

must  have  a  store  of  food  in  their  dens,  as  does  the 
chipmunk,  or  else  be  more  or  less  active  in  their 
search  all  winter,  as  is  the  case  with  the  red  and 
gray  squirrels.  The  fox  puts  on  more  or  less  fat 
in  the  fall,  because  he  will  need  it  before  spring.  His 
food-supply  is  very  precarious ;  he  may  go  many  days 
without  a  morsel.  I  have  known  him  to  be  so  hungry 
that  he  would  eat  frozen  apples  and  corn  which  he 
could  not  digest.  The  hare  and  the  rabbit,  on  the 
other  hand,  do  not  store  up  fat  against  a  time  of 
need;  their  food-supply  of  bark  and  twigs  is  constant, 
no  matter  how  deep  the  snows.  The  birds  of  prey 
that  pass  the  winter  in  the  north  take  on  a  coat  of 
fat  in  the  fall,  because  their  food-supply  is  so  uncer- 
tain; the  coat  of  fat  is  also  a  protection  against  the 
cold. 

Of  course,  all  the  wild  creatures  are  in  better 
condition  in  the  fall  than  in  the  spring,  but  in 
many  cases  the  fat  is  distinctly  a  substitute  for 
food. 

The  skunk  is  in  his  den  also  from  December  till 
February,  living  on  his  own  fat.  Several  of  them 
often  occupy  the  same  den  and  conserve  their  animal 
heat  in  that  way.  The  coon,  also,  is  in  his  den  in  the 
rocks  for  a  part  of  the  winter,  keeping  warm  on 
home-made  fuel.  The  same  is  true  of  the  bear  in 
our  climate.  The  bats  are  hibernating  in  the  rocks 
or  about  buildings.  The  muskrats  are  leading  hidden 
lives  in  the  upper  chambers  of  their  snow-covered 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

houses  in  the  marshes  and  ponds  or  in  the  banks  of 
streams,  feeding  on  lily-roots  and  mussels  which 
they  get  under  the  ice. 

The  lean,  bloodthirsty  minks  and  weasels  are 
on  the  hunt  all  winter.  Our  native  mice  are  also 
active.  That  pretty  stitching  upon  the  coverlet  of 
the  winter  snow  in  the  woods  is  made  by  our  white- 
footed  mouse  and  by  the  little  shrew  mouse.  The 
former  often  has  large  stores  of  nuts  hidden  in  some 
cavity  in  a  tree;  what  supply  of  food  the  latter  has, 
if  any,  I  do  not  know.  In  the  winter  the  short-tailed 
meadow  or  field  mice  come  out  of  their  retreat  in 
the  ground  and  beneath  stones  and  lead  gay,  fearless 
lives  beneath  the  snow-drifts.  Their  little  villages, 
with  their  runways  and  abandoned  nests,  may  be 
seen  when  the  snow  disappears  in  the  spring.  Their 
winter  life  beneath  the  snow,  where  no  wicked  eye 
or  murderous  claw  can  reach  them,  is  in  sharp  con- 
trast to  their  life  in  summer,  when  cats  and  hawks, 
owls  and  foxes,  pounce  upon  them  day  and  night.  It 
is  only  in  times  of  deep  snows  that  they  bark  our 
fruit-trees. 

We  have  in  this  latitude  but  one  species  of  hiber- 
nating mouse  —  the  long-tailed  jumping  mouse,  or 
kangaroo  mouse,  as  it  is  sometimes  called  from  its 
mode  of  locomotion.  Late  one  fall,  while  making  a 
road  near  *'  Slabsides,"  we  dug  one  out  from  its 
hibernation  about  two  feet  below  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  It  was  like  a  little  ball  of  fur  tied  with  a 
287 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

string.  In  my  hand  it  seemed  as  cold  as  if  dead. 
Close  scrutiny  showed  that  it  breathed  at  intervals, 
very  slowly.  The  embers  of  life  were  there,  but  slum- 
bering beneath  the  ashes.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  and 
went  about  my  work.  After  a  little  time,  remember- 
ing my  mouse,  I  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket  and 
touched  something  very  warm  and  lively.  The  em- 
ber had  been  fanned  into  a  flame,  so  to  speak.  I  kept 
my  captive  in  a  cage  a  day  or  two  and  then  returned 
it  to  the  woods,  where  I  trust  it  found  a  safe  retreat 
against  the  cold. 

VII.  A   FEATHERED   BANDIT 

One  day  as  I  sat  at  my  desk  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  swiftly  moving  wings  about  the  trunk  of  a  large 
maple  that  stands  in  front  of  my  window.  A  second 
glance  showed  me  a  shrike,  or  butcher-bird,  pursuing 
some  small  bird  round  the  tree.  Rushing  to  the 
door,  I  saw  that  the  pursued  was  a  brown  creeper 
and  that  the  little  bird  was  taxing  its  wit  and  its 
wings  to  the  utmost  to  avoid  being  seized  by  the 
shrike.  Its  obvious  tactics  were  to  keep  the  trunk 
of  the  tree  between  it  and  its  enemy.  As  the  creeper 
spends  most  of  its  time  on  the  trunks  of  trees  seek- 
ing its  minute  food,  it  is  entirely  at  home  there.  Its 
protective  coloration,  as  it  is  called,  is  supposed  to 
be  of  great  service  in  concealing  it  from  its  enemies, 
but  it  seemed  to  avail  it  little  in  the  present  case. 

When  the  shrike  lost  sight  of  it  for  a  moment  as 
288 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

it  darted  round  the  tree-trunk,  he  began  exploring 
the  tree  all  the  way  to  the  top.  Then  he  dropped 
down  to  near  the  bottom,  and  in  so  doing  started  the 
creeper  from  its  place  of  hiding.  It  came  quickly  on 
my  side  of  the  tree  and  stopped,  clinging  to  the  bark 
where  it  was  partly  shielded  and  hidden  by  a  rope 
attached  to  a  hammock.  There  it  crouched  motion- 
less and,  I  fancied,  trembling  for  its  life.  The  shrike 
has  not  the  talons  of  the  bird  of  prey  and  hence  it 
cannot  strike  its  quarry  as  the  hawk  can.  Its  weapon 
is  its  slightly  hooked  beak.  With  this  it  breaks  the 
skulls  of  its  victims  and  then  sups  upon  their  brains. 
The  little  creeper  acted  as  if  it  knew  all  this,  but  I 
suppose  all  it  knew  was  that  a  large  bird  with  a 
murderous  instinct  was  hotly  pursuing  it. 

The  shrike  in  his  search  now  alighted  upon  the 
hammock;  this  act  caused  the  rope  to  move  that 
partly  concealed  the  creeper,  and  away  it  flew,  no 
doubt  in  a  panic  of  fear.  The  shrike  saw  it  and  gave 
chase,  but  before  I  could  get  into  the  open  where 
I  could  see  the  issue,  both  birds  had  disappeared, 
nor  could  I  see  a  feather  of  either  anywhere  on  the 
ground  or  among  the  trees  of  the  neighborhood.  I 
think  the  creeper  escaped,  though  I  thought  its 
leaving  the  maple  was  very  bad  tactics. 

In  December,  1910,  my  son  and  I  witnessed  a  little 
bird  tragedy  which  showed  how  fatal  it  is  for  one  of 
our  smaller  birds  to  seek  to  escape  from  the  mur- 
derous shrike  by  open  flight.  I  had  just  stepped  out 
289 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS 

of  my  study  door  and  was  gazing  out  upon  the  white 
landscape,  when  my  son,  who  was  passing  by  a 
woven-wire  fence,  about  fifty  yards  away,  with  a 
piece  of  timber  upon  his  shoulder,  called  out  to  me, 
"See  those  birds."  Two  birds,  one  in  hot  pursuit 
of  the  other,  had  struck  the  woven-wire  fence  at 
his  elbow,  had  struggled  through  the  meshes,  and 
gone  racing  through  the  vineyard  in  my  direction. 
I  saw  them  coming  down  between  two  rows  of  grape- 
vines in  desperate  flight.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  it 
was  a  shrike  pursuing  a  junco  or  snowbird,  and  that 
the  assassin  was  gaining  on  his  victim.  As  they  got 
opposite  me  and  about  forty  yards  below  me,  the 
junco,  finding  its  enemy  dangerously  near,  turned 
its  course  sharply  to  the  right,  crossing  the  line  of 
wires  supporting  the  vines. 

Then  just  what  happened,  or  rather  just  how  the 
deed  was  done,  my  eye  was  not  quick  enough  to  see, 
but  the  shrike  struck  his  victim  down,  probably 
with  his  beak,  and  fell  with  it  to  the  ground.  I  rushed 
to  the  rescue  as  fast  as  possible,  but  before  I  could 
reach  the  spot,  the  shrike  had  killed  his  victim,  car- 
ried it  to  the  top  of  a  grapevine,  tightened  his  hold, 
and  was  off  down  the  hill  toward  a  line  of  trees,  with 
its  limp  form  hanging  beneath  him.  There  was  the 
imprint  in  the  snow  where  the  birds  had  fallen,  but 
not  a  feather  or  a  drop  of  blood  to  tell  of  the  tragedy 
that  had  been  enacted  there. 

Later  in  the  winter,  while  trimming  the  grape- 
290 


IN  FIELD  AND  WOOD 

vines,  I  heard  a  bird  scream,  and,  looking  in  the  di- 
rection, saw  that  a  robin  was  being  hotly  pursued  by  a 
shrike.  The  robin  was  darting  in  and  about  a  spruce- 
tree,  screaming  his  protest  and  leaving  a  trail  of 
feathers  behind  where  the  shrike  struck  him.  Pres- 
ently, still  shouting  his  protests,  he  left  the  shelter 
of  the  spruces  and  disappeared  over  the  hill,  closely 
pursued  by  the  shrike.  What  the  final  issue  was  no 
one  knows.  I  had  not  supposed  that  the  shrike  ever 
attacked  so  large  a  bird  as  the  robin.  He  certainly 
could  not  carry  away  a  bird  of  more  than  his  own 
weight,  though  he  might  kill  it  by  a  blow  upon  its 
head,  as  he  probably  did  in  this  case. 

The  wild  life  about  us  is  full  of  tragedies,  both 
winter  and  summer.  Many  of  the  records  upon  the 
snow  tell  a  story  of  only  fear  or  pain. 


THE  END 


INDEX 


Animals,  mind  of,  113-136;  ampu- 
tating their  own  legs,  115-117; 
lack  of  perception  of  the  humor- 
ous, 118-120;  the  play  of,  120; 
creatures  of  habit,  123,  124;  can 
be  trainedbut  cannot  be  educated, 
124,  133;  use  of  signals  by,  129; 
their  tools  a  part  of  themselves, 
130,  131 ;  activities  determined  by 
their  organization,  138,  139;  na- 
ture of  their  intelligence,  139,  140; 
wise  in  their  own  sphere  and  stu- 
pid out  of  it,  141;  strength  of 
their  instincts,  142;  food  habits, 
143, 144;  adaptiveness,  146;  auto- 
matic actions  of,  146-154;  in- 
stinct, not  habit,  the  key  to  their 
behavior,  155-174;  habit  in  do- 
mestic, 162;  instinct  in  domestic, 
164;  laboratory  experiments  on 
psychology  of,  165-168,  175-200; 
memory  in,  169;  tropisms  in,  169, 
170;  lack  of  self -consciousness, 
193;  community  of  mind  in,  197- 
199;  untaught  wisdom  of,  201- 
211;  influence  of  domestication 
upon,  201;  training  of,  208;  feed- 
ing instincts,  262-265;  their  intel- 
ligence below  the  level  of  con- 
sciousness, 265-267. 

Ants,  203,  204,  283. 

Apes,  gleams  of  reason  in,  202. 

Barn,  a  study  in  a,  24,  93,  94,  223. 

Bats,  286. 

Bears,  getting  rid  of  traps,  117. 

Beaver,  amputating  its  own  leg,  115, 
116. 

Bee.   See  Honey-bee. 

Bees,  solitary,  205. 

Beetle,  sacred,  205. 

Bergson,  Henri,  his  "Creative  Evo- 
lution," 71-73,  91  note. 

Birds,  relation  of  books  to,  12;  study 
and  love  of,  12,  13;  as  a  piece  of 
living  nature,  13;  interest  in,  36; 


morning  awakening,  43;  second 
and  third  nests,  149;  reasons  for 
seeking  vicinity  of  man,  149-151; 
color  and  color-sense,  194-196; 
musical  sense,  196,  197;  possible 
telepathy,  197,  198;  the  mother 
the  main  bread-winner,  226;  dan- 
gers to  ground  nests,  232;  auto- 
matic character  of  bird-song,  256- 
261 ;  origin  of  bird-song,  257;defect- 
ive  voices,  261 ;  the  male  in  nest- 
building,  268,  269;  the  mother  the 
head  of  the  family,  269. 

Blood,  circulation  of,  237. 

Bluebird  (Sialia  stoZis),  behavior  of 
a  pair  whose  nest  had  been  re- 
moved, 120-123;  feeding  young, 
226;  young  killed  by  grubs,  270, 
271. 

Bobolink  (Dolichonyx  oryzivorus) ; 
193 ;  song  of,  258 ;  a  bird  with  a  de- 
fective voice,  261. 

Bob-white.   See  Quail. 

Body,  the,  structure  of,  18-21. 

Books,  5,  6. 

Bumblebee,  83;  an  unfortunate, 
234;  wintering,  282,  283. 

Burroughs,  John,  looking  back  upon 
his  life,  1-14;  in  love  with  thia 
world,  2;  secluded  life,  2,  3;  never 
a  fighter,  4;  things  missed,  4-7; 
education,  5;  literary  career,  5; 
relation  to  books,  5, 6;  and  the  sol- 
dier's life,  7-10;  and  nature,  10- 
14;  and  the  other  world,  14,  15; 
satisfied  with  this  world,  14,  15; 
the  lesson  of  his  life,  23. 

Butcher-bird.   See  Shrike. 

Butterflies,  in  winter,  281,  282. 

Butterfly,  monarch,  282. 

Butterfly,  mourning-cloak,  281. 

Candelabra-tree,  203,  204. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  and  evolution,  57, 

58. 
Cat,  stalking  a  chipmunk,  266,  267. 


INDEX 


Catskills,  the,  the  author's  farm  in, 
24-17;  age  of,  37-39. 

Cause,  first,  222. 

Cells,  18-21,  92. 

Chickadee  (Pentheates  atricapillus) , 
249. 

Children,  6,  7. 

Chimpanzee,  114,  115. 

Chipmunk,  106,  114,  153,  254;  win- 
ter stores,  46,  47,  243,  244,  285; 
watchfulness,  9,  4,  95;  catch- 
ing a  flying  grasshopper,  110; 
a  timid,  111;  method  of  excava- 
ting winter  quarters,  238-242, 
245,  246;  leaving  no  trail,  239, 
240;  dug  out  of  its  hole,  243; 
245;  wintering,  245,  285;  and 
weasel,  277. 

Civilization,  and  science,  66-68. 

Clifford,  W.  K,  50. 

Cock,  193. 

Color,  and  color-blindness,  194- 
196. 

Coon.   See  Raccoon. 

Copperhead,  285. 

Cows,  in  the  pastoral  landscape, 
31-33;  landscape  gardeners,  128, 
129. 

Crab,  hermit,  202,  203. 

"Creative  Evolution,"  by  Henri 
Bergson,  71-73,  91  note. 

Creeper,  brown  (Certhia  familiaris 
americana),  and  shrike,  288,  289. 

Crossbill  (Loxia  sp.),  eating  peach 
blossoms,  161. 

Crow,  American  (Cormis  brachy- 
rhynchos),  a  true  countryman,  39; 
in  early  morning,  40;  mass  meet- 
ings, 40,  41;  sociability,  41,  42; 
bearing,  42;  talkativeness,  43; 
training  a  marsh  hawk,  102,  103; 
business,  103, 104;  character,  104; 
adaptiveness  in  regard  to  food, 
146;  feeding  young,  253;  way  of 
carrying  things,  256. 

Dandelion,  seed  and  the  birds,  254. 

Darwin,  Charles,  his  imagination, 
63;  and  the  religious  attitude  of 
mind,  69;  an  observation  of  his, 
146;  his  sexual  selection  theory, 
194-197. 


Dogs,  dog  and  wood  chuck,  29;  re- 
sponsiveness, 131,  132;  blood- 
relationship  to  man,  132;  intel- 
lectuality, 132,  133;  psychologi- 
cal experiments  on,  191,  192;  in- 
fluence of  domestication  upon, 
201 ;  learning  from  man,  207,  208; 
a  singing  dog,  208;  a  dog  eating  a 
mushroom,  211. 

Ducks,  young,  and  water,  164,  165. 

Eliot,  George,  quoted,  25. 

Elm,  seeds  and  squirrels,  254,  255. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  quoted, 
25,  33,  127,  256,  282,  283;  and 
science,  70,  71. 

Evolution,  the  paths'of,  17;  extrin- 
sic conditions  and  intrinsic  neces- 
sity in,  87-92;  its  wayward,  blun- 
dering course,  91. 

Farmer,  the,  34-36. 

Farms,  East  and  West,  36-39. 

Finch,  purple    (Carpodacus  purpu* 

reus),  254. 

Fiske,  John,  quoted,  173. 
Flicker.   See  Highhole. 
Fox,   eating   corn,    161;   power   of 

sight,  192;  in  winter,  286. 
Frog,  wood,  284. 
Frogs,  hearing  of,  199. 

Goethe,  quoted,  61. 

Goldenrod,  236. 

Goldfinch,  American  (Astragalinus 

tristis),  254. 
"Graphic,"    the    London,    quoted, 

281. 
Grasshoppers,  281. 

Habit,  not  the  key  to  animal  be- 
havior, 156-174;  formation  of, 
167. 

Haeckel,  Ernest,  50. 

Hare,  286. 

Hare,  European,  chased  by  stoat, 
280,  281. 

Hare,  little  chief,  haymaking,  144. 

Hawk,  marsh  (Circus  hudsonius), 
hunting,  102;  and  crows,  102,  103. 

Hawk,  sharp-shinned  (Accipitw 
velox),  97,  103. 


294 


INDEX 


Hawk,  sparrow  (Falco  sparverius) , 
releasing  itself,  79. 

Hawks,  silent  and  solitary,  104; 
feeding  habits  and  scarcity,  146; 
mode  of  carrying  prey,  258. 

Hibernation,  281-288. 

Highhole,  or  northern  flicker  (Colap- 
tes  auratus  luteus),  97. 

Hills,  the  peace  of  the,  25,  26. 

Honey-bee,  Nature's  random  meth- 
od illustrated  by,  81-84;  limits 
of  her  knowledge,  153,  154;  the 
drone  fatherless,  237,  238. 

Hornaday,  William  T.,  114,  115, 
144. 

Hornets,  nests  of,  151,  152;  winter- 
ing, 282. 

Hospital,  a  military,  9. 

Humorous,  perception  of  the,  118- 
120. 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry,  50,  54,  57, 
237;  quoted,  59,  88;  a  scientific 
idealist,  69. 

Ice-sheet,  continental,  79,  80. 

Ichneumon-fly,  203. 

Indigo-bird  (Passerina  cyanea) , 
song  of,  257;  manner  of  singing, 
259-261. 

Insects,  making  use  of  nature,  128; 
intelligence  of,  203,  205,  206; 
music  of,  261,  262;  in  winter,  281- 
283. 

Instinct,  price  paid  for,  136;  inher- 
ent unconscious  intelligence  con- 
stantly in  operation,  140;  heap- 
ing measures  of,  142;  the  killing 
instinct,  152,  153;  the  key  to  ani- 
mal behavior,  155-174;  instinct 
and  instincts,  162;  maternal  in- 
stinct, 162, 163;  homing  instinct, 
162-164;  not  found  in  the  lower 
forms,  169,  170;  physics  of,  172; 
times  of  development  of  instincts, 
172,  173;  as  untaught  wisdom, 
201-211;  and  the  power  of  choice, 
209-211. 

James,  William,  quoted,  187. 

Jay,  blue  (Cyanocitta  cristate) ,  habi- 
tat, 42,  43;  teasing  a  sharp- 
shinned  hawk,  103. 


Jordan,  David  Starr,  and  Vernon 
Kellogg,  their  "Evolution  and 
Animal  Life,"  209,  210. 

Junco,  or  snowbird  (Junco  hyemalis), 
with  a  nest  in  a  haymow,  99-102; 
a  fidgety  bird,  100;  story  of  an- 
other haymow  nest,  231-233;  ner- 
vousness, 232,  233;  beauty  of  the 
nest,  272;  two  nests,  272,  273; 
caught  by  a  shrike,  289,  290. 

Katydid,  262. 

Kingbird  (Tyrannustyrannus),  150. 

Kingfisher,  a  Cape  Verde  Islands, 

146. 
Knowledge,  through  sympathy,  12. 

Laboratory  experimentation  on 
animals,  vs.  observation,  165- 
168,  175-200;  takes  them  out  of 
the  animal  sphere,  179-183;  nar- 
rowness of  the  field,  183-185;  do- 
mestic animals  generally  used, 
191. 

Lankester,  Ray,  133;  quoted,  134, 
135. 

Laughter,  118,  119. 

Leaves,  falling,  246-248. 

Life,  the  physico-chemical  explana- 
tion of,  55,  56;  scientific  view  of, 
58;  begets  life,  91,  29. 

Literature,  its  gain  in  this  economic 
age,  74,  75. 

Loeb,  Jacques,  his  experiments, 
168-170. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  quoted,  258. 

Lubbock,  Sir  John,  17,  205. 

McClure's  Magazine,  156  note. 

Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  20. 

Man,  animal  origin  of,  56-58;  can- 
not live  by  science  alone,  60;  Na- 
ture's supremacy  over,  85,  86; 
evolution  of,  87-90;  made  up  of  a 
multitude  of  cells,  92;  as  master 
of  Nature,  128;  hints  of  his  facul- 
ties in  the  lower  animals,  129 ;  ori- 
gin of  his  reason,  133-136;  the  fall 
of,  135;  the  price  of  his  privileges, 
136,  137;  many  of  his  acts  deter- 
mined by  causes  outside  of  hia 
own  will,  141;  his  intelligence 


295 


INDEX 


plays  inside  the  cosmic  intelli- 
gence, 145;  and  his  instincts,  158- 
161;  his  organization  not  special- 
ized, 159,  160,  204;  his  superior- 
ity to  the  higher  mammals,  178, 
179;  has  to  learn  what  to  eat,  262- 
265. 

Mayer,  A.  G.,  195. 

Mechanism  vs.  vitalism,  55,  56. 

Memory,  in  animals,  169. 

Mice,  wood,  113. 

Mind,  the  animal,  113-136;  in  na- 
ture, 124-128,  145,  206,  207. 

Mink,  killing  rabbits,  274-276. 

Monkeys,  using  tools,  114,  115,  129, 
130;  perception  of  the  humorous, 
120;  monkey  and  puzzle-box,  176; 
color-sense,  196;  instinct  in  eating 
eggs,  210,  211. 

Moth,  promethea,  195. 

Mountains,  age  of,  37,  38.    - 

Mouse,  jumping,  or  kangaroo 
mouse,  287,  288. 

Mouse,  meadow,  287. 

Mouse,  shrew,  287. 

Mouse,  white-footed,  153,  287. 

Murres,  in  Bering  Sea,  164. 

Muskrat,  286. 

Nature,  the  book  of,  13, 14;  hit-and- 
miss  method  of,  76-92;  blind, 
groping  intelligence  of,  77;  su- 
periority over  man,  85,  86;  the 
balancing  of  her  books,  86;  has  no 
need  of  eyes,  88;  mind  in,  124- 
128;  "trial  and  error"  methods 
of,  125,  126;  relation  to  the  ani- 
mals and  to  man,  128,  129;  her 
thinking,  139-154. 

Nervous  system,  169. 

Night,  22,  23. 

Nuts,  the  natural  planting  of,  85. 

Observation,  vs.  laboratory  experi- 
mentation, 165-168,  175-200;  in- 
tensive, 236. 

Oriole,  Baltimore  (Icterus  galbula), 
nests  of,  147, 148,  150;  nest-build- 
ing, 269,  271,  272. 


Phcebe  (Sayornis  phoebe),  150;  nest- 
ing, 97,  98;  fly-catching,  98,   99, 


228;  plural  nests,  141, 142  j  and  a 
pair  of  barn  swallows, ''223;  se- 
crecy about  nest,  225;  young  in 
nest,  225;  homeliness,  225;  young 
leaving  nest,  231;  repeating  call, 
259. 

Phonograph,  the,  171. 

Pika,  haymaking,  144. 

Planetary  systems,  evolution  of,  81. 

Plants,  and  seed-ripening,  149,  207; 
intelligence  of,  181,  203,  204,  266; 
adapting  means  to  an  end,  265. 

Play,  in  animals,  120. 

Poetry,  and  science,  61-63. 

Prairie,  the,  36,  37. 

Quail,  or  bob-white  (Colinus  virgini- 
onus),  146. 

Rabbit,  a  timid,  96;  and  weasel, 
274-281;  can  see  behind,  274;  noc- 
turnal, 275;  in  winter,  286. 

Raccoon,  167,  168,  196,  211,  286. 

Rainbow,  the,  212-216. 

Rat,  stealing  green  peas,  96;  and 
weasel,  278,  279. 

Raven,  northern  (Corvus  corax  prin- 

*&  cipalis),  43. 

Reason,  origin  of,  133-136;  price 
paid  for,  136;  and  the  power  of 
choice,  209-211. 

Reid,  G.  Archibald,  his  book  "Tha 
Laws  of  Heredity"  quoted,  187. 

Robin  (Planesticus  migratorius), 
143,  150,  268;  plural  nests,  141, 
142;  variation  in  number  of  eggs, 
148;  an  odd  nesting-site,  180;  at- 
tacked by  a  shrike,  290,  291. 

Roosevelt,  Theodore,  164. 

Roosters,  193. 

Science,  and  the  spiritual,  48-55; 
limitations,  54,  55;  occupied  with 
the  physical  side  of  things,  58- 
62;  no  mystery  to,  61;  and  poe- 
try, 61-63;  our  debts  to,  64-66; 
and  the  evils  of  our  civilization, 
66-68;  and  some  modern  poets, 
70,  71;  in  Bergson's  "Creative 
Evolution,"  71-73;  its  influence 
on  modern  life,  73-75. 

Sea-anemone,  202,  203. 


296 


INDEX 


Seed,  Nature's  prodigality  with, 
85. 

Sexual  selection,  194-197. 

Sharp,  Dallas  Lore,  153. 

Shrew.   See  Mouse,  shrew. 

Shrike,  or  butcher-bird  (Lanius  sp.) , 
chasing  a  brown  creeper,  288,  289; 
catching  a  junco,  289,  290;  attack- 
ing a  robin,  290,  291. 

Skunk,  286. 

Snakes,  wintering,  285,  286. 

Snowbird,  See  Junco. 

Soldier,  the,  7. 

Soul,  the  physical  basis  of,  171. 

Sparrow,  bush,  or  field  sparrow 
(Spizella  pusilla),  song  of,  257, 
258. 

Sparrow,  chipping  (Spizella  passer- 
tno),  150,  254. 

Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  melodia), 
morning  awakening,  43;  reper- 
toire, 43,  44;  curiosity,  97;  wan- 
ing of  song-impulse,  260. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  50;  his  philosophy 
purely  scientific,  72. 

Squirrel,  gray,  46,  47,  96,  111,  112; 
grace  of,  108;  food  of,  255. 

Squirrel,  red,  242;  removing  a  store 
of  butternuts,  45,  46,  84;  winter 
life,  47;  nervous  manner,  95; 
mocking  ways,  105,  106;  jerki- 
ness,  106,  107;  his  emotional  tail, 
108;  vocal  accomplishments,  108; 
playing  tag,  108,  109;  traits,  109 -, 
gathering  butternuts,  110;  spring 
food  of,  143,  144;  hoarding  in- 
stinct automatic,  153;  a  tilt  with 
a  red-headed  woodpecker,  251, 
252;  spring  food,  254,  255;  and 
weasel,  280. 

Starfish,  amputating  its  arm,  116. 

Stars,  the,  21-23. 

Steeple-bush,  236. 

Stoat,  chasing  hare,  280,  281.  See 
also  Weasel. 

Streams,  and  gravitation,  87. 

Sun,  a  type  of  Nature's  spend- 
thrift method,  80. 

Suns,  evolution  of,  81. 

Swallow,  barn  (Hirundo  erythro- 
gastra),  and  a  pair  of  phoebes,  223; 
wing-power,  224-228;  catching 


insects,  226-228;  feeding  young; 
227,  231;  young  learning  to  fly, 
228-230;  notes,  229. 
Sycamore,  seed  and  birds,  254.   t 

Teazel,  236,  237. 

Telepathy,  197-199. 

Tennyson,   Alfred,   Lord,   and   the 

physical  sciences,  70. 
Thorndike,  Prof.  Edward  Lee,  hia 

experiments,  176;  quoted,  187. 
Thrasher,     California     (Toxostoma 

redivivum),  130. 
Threshing,  93,  94. 
Thrush,  hermit  (Hylocichla  gutata 

pallasi),  song  of,  260. 
Thrush,  wood    (Hylocichla    mustel- 

ina),  151;  nest-building,  267,268; 

fate  of  two  nests,  260  270. 
Toads,  284. 
Tree-frogs,  284. 

Trees,  intelligence  of,  203,  204. 
Tropisms,  169,  170. 
Tyndall,  John,  54. 

Up  and  down,  218-220. 

Valleys,  25. 

Vireo,  red-eyed  (Vireosylva  olivacea), 

song  of,  259. 
Vitalism,  55,  56. 

War,  the  Civil,  7-10. 

Warbler,  mourning  (Oporomis  phiU 
adelphia),  44. 

Wasp,  solitary,  17,  205. 

Water,  the  law  of,  138. 

Weasel,  mysterious  power  over  the 
rabbit,  274-281;  pursuing  chick- 
ens, 276;  an  experience  with  a 
weasel,  276;  seizes  its  victim  in 
flight,  277;  chasing  a  chipmunk, 
277;  chasing  a  red  squirrel,  280. 

Weeds,  fattening  on  our  labor,  151. 

Whip-poor-will  (Antrostomus  vocif- 
erus),  song  of,  259. 

Whitman,  Walt,  quoted,  34,  58,  62, 
71;  and  science,  71. 

Wildcat,  the  killing  instinct  in,  152, 
153. 

Winter,  wild  life  in,  281-288. 

Woodchuck,  edibility,  26,  27;  food, 


297 


INDEX 


27;  hibernation,  27,  28,  285;  hab- 
its, 28;  and  farm-dog,  29;  a  race 
with  a,  30,  31;  winter  stores  of 
fat,  46;  watchfulness,  94;  hole, 
246. 

Woodchuck  Lodge,  life  at,  24-47. 

Woodpecker,  downy  (Dryobatea 
pubescens  mediants),  winter 
quarters,  155,  156,  188-190,  248- 
251. 

Woodpecker,  hairy  (Dryobates  rt'Mo- 
«us),  251. 

Woodpecker,  red-headed  (Melaner- 


pes  erythrocephalus),  chasing  a 
red  squirrel,  251,  252. 

World,  the,  beauty  and  wonder 
of,  1,  2;  and  the  other  world,  14, 
15;  birth  and  growth,  16;  concep- 
tion of  its  sphericity,  217-221;  its 
motion  in  space,  221. 

Wren,  house  (Troglodytes  a&dori), 
song  of,  256. 

Writing,  object  of,  5. 

Yellow-Jackets.   See  Hornets. 
Youth,  11. 


OFfce 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


14  DAY  USE 

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